OLD MISSION STORIES OF CALIFORNIA

By Charles Franklin Carter

 Author of "The Missions of Nueva California" and "Some By-ways of California"

San Francisco

Copyright 1917, by Paul Elder and Company

Contents

 Foreword The Indian Sibyl's Prophecy The Flight of Padre Peyri Father Zalvidea's Money La Beata Juana Father Uria's Saints Pomponio

Foreword

Of the last six stories comprising the seven in this little collectionof Stories of the Old Missions, all but one have, as a basis, somemodicum, larger or smaller, of historical fact, the tale of Juana alonebeing wholly fanciful, although with an historical background. The firststory of the series may be considered as introductory to the missiontales proper. 

In these quiet, unpretending stories the writer has attempted to givea faithful picture of life among the Indians and Spaniards in NuevaCalifornia during the early days of the past century. 

October, 1917. 

The Indian Sibyl's Prophecy

In the southern part of the Mojave Desert a low hill stands somewhatapart from the foot-hills beyond, and back of it. Although not morethan two hundred feet above the surrounding plateau, on account of itspeculiar location, a commanding view may be had from its top. In front, toward the south, and extending all the way from east to west, the plainstretches off for many miles, until it approaches the distant horizon, where it is merged into lofty mountains, forming a tumultuous, serratedsky-line. Midway between the hill and the distant mountains, lie thebeds, sharply defined, of three dry lakes. In the garish light of daythey show for what they are, the light yellow hard-baked soil of thedesert, without even the ordinary sage brush; but in early morning and, less frequently, toward evening, these lakes take on a semblance oftheir former state, sometimes (so strong is the mirage) almost deceivingthose best acquainted with the region. Years ago--how many it wouldbe difficult to say--these dry lakes were veritable bodies of water;indeed, at an earlier period than that, they were, without doubt, andincluding a large extent of the surrounding desert, one vast lake. Butthat was centuries ago, maybe, and with time the lake dried up, leaving, at last, only these three light spots in the view, which, in theirturn, are growing smaller with the passing years, until they, too, willvanish, obliterated by the encroaching vegetation. 

Back of the eminence from which this extended view is had, the mountainscome close, not as high as those toward the south, but still respectableheights, snow-covered in winter. They array themselves in fantasticshapes, with colors changing from hour to hour. One thinks of thedesert as a barren sandy waste, minus water, trees and other vegetation, clouds, and all the color and beauty of nature of more favoreddistricts. Not so. Water is scarce, it is true, and springs few and farbetween, and the vegetation is in proportion; for what little thereis is mostly dependent on the annual rainfall, never excessive, at thebest, yet always sufficient for the brush covering the ground, andthe yuccas towering up many feet here and there. But color, beautiful, brilliant, magnificent color, is here any and every day of the year, andfrom earliest dawn until the last traces of the evening sun have fadedaway, only to give place to moonlight unsurpassed anywhere in the world. Truly, the desert is far from being the dry, desolate, uninterestingregion it is commonly pictured. 

More than a century and a quarter ago, there stood on the side of thishill, and not far from its top, an Indian hut, or wickiup. It was builtafter the manner of the Indian tribes of Southern California--a circularspace of about fifteen feet in diameter enclosed by brush-work, androofed by a low dome of the same material. At the side was an opening, too small to permit one to enter without stooping low. This doorway, ifit may be so called, being window and chimney as well, fronted towardthe south, facing the dry lakes and the mountains beyond. Close by, at the left, was a heap of bones, which, on a nearer view, disclosedthemselves to be those of rabbits, coyotes and quail, while three orfour larger bones in the pile might inform the zoologist that thefierce mountain-lion was not unknown to this region. To the right of thedoorway, some ten feet from it, were two large flat stones, set facingeach other, a few inches apart; between them lay a handful of ashes, betokening the kitchen of the family living here. Close by the stoneslay a number of smooth, rounded stones of use and value to the peopleof the hut. Back of the wickiup, a few paces up the hill, a tiny springissued from the ground, affording a never-failing, though scanty, supplyof water. 

The location of this solitary hut, remote from all other signs ofhumanity, so far as the eye could judge, was a singular one; for theIndian loves his kind, and it is rare that one wanders deliberately awayto make his home in loneliness, far from the rest of the tribe to whichhe belongs. In the case of this hut, however, its solitariness wasmore apparent than real; for although out of sight of any habitationwhatever, the tribe to which its inmates belonged was distant not morethan two miles, but on the other face of the hill, and hidden far in therecesses of a small canyon. Here, on the site of a beautiful source ofprecious water, was a cluster of Indian houses of brush, built like theone on the hillside. Each had its fireplace on one side, as well asthe accompanying heap of bones of animals killed in the chase. Nearthe centre of the group of huts stood the temescal--an institution withnearly every Southern California tribe of Indians--where those who wereill subjected themselves to the heroic treatment of parboiling over afire, until in a profuse perspiration, to be followed, on crawling out, by a plunge into the icy water of the stream. It was truly a case ofkill or cure. 

Let us return to the hillside hut, and make the acquaintance of itsinmates. Passing through the humble opening, the interior is disclosedto the curious eye at one glance. The ground embraced within the circleof the wickiup had been dug away so as to make an even, hard floor twoor three feet below the surface of the earth outside. To the right, standing on the floor, were two large, round baskets, each one with acapacity of half a dozen gallons. They were made in conformity to thegeneral type of basket of the Southern California aborigine, but withthe distinctive marks peculiar to the tribe to which belonged thedwellers within, and woven so tightly as to hold water withoutpermitting a drop to pass through. In the bottom of one of these basketswas scattered a little ground meal of the acorn, a staple article offood with all the Indians of California. The other basket, similar tothe first in shape and size, but of rougher weave, and lined on theinside with bitumen, was nearly full of water; for though thefinely woven baskets of the Southern California Indians were reallywater-tight, they were not generally used for liquids. Any one, acquainted with the customs of these Indians, would understand themeaning of the little heap of stones by the fireside without: they wereused in warming the water in the basket, which was done by heating themin the embers of the fire, then, when hot, throwing them into the water, in this way bringing it almost to a boil. Afterward, the stones havingbeen taken out, some meal was thrown in and, in this manner, cooked. Beyond the baskets, and nearly opposite the entrance, against the wall, was a heap of fine brush, covered with the tawny skin of an immensemountain-lion--a giant specimen of his species, and a formidable animal, truly, for an Indian to encounter with only bow and arrow. 

On this bed of brush was the gaunt, emaciated form of a woman lyingstretched out at full length. At first glance, one might have mistakenher for a mummy, so still and lifeless she lay; her face, too, carriedout the resemblance startlingly, for it was furrowed and seamed withcountless wrinkles, the skin appearing like parchment in its dry, leathery texture. Only the eyes gave assurance that this was no mummy, but a living, sentient body--eyes large, full-orbed and black asmidnight, arched by heavy brows that frowned with great purpose, as ifthe soul behind and beyond were seeking, powerless, to relieve itself ofsome weighty message. These were not the eyes of age, yet they belongedto a countenance that gave token of having lived through a great manyyears; for the woman lying there so deathly still had experiencedall the varied joys and sufferings of near four score years, each oneleaving its indelible mark on the tell-tale face. She was clothed in aloose dress made from rabbit skins, sewn together coarsely, sleeveless, and so short as to leave her feet and ankles bare. 

To the left of the entrance crouched a young Indian woman. She was anunusually good-looking specimen of the desert tribes: a tall well-shapedform; a head and face of much beauty and character, with a pair of eyesthat, at first glance, betrayed a close relation to the woman lyingon the bed. They were of the same size, color and brilliance; but thetense, powerful expression that was seen in those of the aged woman, here was softened to a mild, yet piercing glance, which had, at the sametime, a touch of sadness. She appeared to be not more than twenty-fiveyears old, although her face, in spite of its gentle, youthfulexpression, showed the traces of more than her full quota of hardships;for the life of the desert Indian is never an easy one at the best, andhere had been a greater struggle for existence than is usual amongthe aborigines. As she crouched by the doorway, she seemed almost aslifeless as the old Indian woman on the bed, her gaze fixed absently onthe extended view of plain and mountain stretching out before her, theonly sign of life being the slow, even rise and fall of her bosom witheach succeeding breath. Her dress was similar to that of the otherwoman, but was shorter, reaching only to the knees. 

This young Indian was the granddaughter of the older woman. On the deathof her parents (her father's following that of her mother, the daughterof the aged Indian, after an interval of a few months), when she waslittle more than an infant, her grandmother had taken sole charge ofher, treating her, as she became older, with the closest intimacy, moreas a sister than a grandchild; and notwithstanding the diversity in age, this, feeling was reciprocated on the part of the child. 

It was after her father's death, but before she herself was old enoughto see more than the surface of action, that her grandmother took up herabode in the lone hut on the brow of the hill, apart from the rest ofthe tribe of which she was a member, with the child her only companion. At first, the little girl noticed not the difference between their modeof living and that of the rest of the tribe, all the other members ofwhich lived together, surrounding the spring of water, their life andmainstay; but very quickly, as the child grew older, she saw, only tooplainly, that her grandmother was looked upon as different from theothers: and the Indian regards all those of his kin, no matter how near, who display any peculiar form of mentality, either with reverence, assomething of the divine, or with cruel hatred, when he believes theunfortunate individual possessed with the evil spirit. She saw, inthe brief and infrequent visits the two made to the tribe, that hergrandmother was regarded with distrust; that glances of aversion werecast at her from the doorways of the huts as they passed, and, once ortwice, a mischievous boy had slyly thrown a stone at the two, wendingtheir way to their lonely home. 

Long the child cogitated over the situation, but, as is the Indian'shabit, without a word to her grand parent of what was occupying hermind. The old woman saw she was absorbed in some mental problem, and, with the shrewdness of the aborigine, guessed the subject, and soughtto divert her thoughts into other channels. It was in vain, for oneevening, after their simple meal of herbs, the girl, gathering courage, in the increasing dusk, asked abruptly, after a long silence:

"Grandmother, why do we live here alone, far from the others in thecanyon? Why do we--?" she paused, frightened at her temerity. 

The old woman started slightly. She had been sitting with hands foldedquietly in her lap, thinking, possibly, of the absent ones of herfamily, gone to be with Ouiot in the everlasting home. Turning to hergranddaughter, she answered, slowly and solemnly:

"My child, I am grieved to have this come upon you now, for I had hopedyou would escape it until, after I am gone to the eternal life beyond. Then it would not have been to you a burden, only a sorrow, softenedby the thought that I had borne bravely the punishment dealt out to me, without a word of reproach. I have seen that you had something on yourmind, and guessed this was it, and now that you have asked me, I thinkit best to tell you, although you are still but a child. For you would, I know, brood over it in your heart. Listen, then, while I tell you mylife story. "

"My childhood and youth were passed in a manner no different from thatof the other children of our tribe; I worked and played, careless ofeverything but the present, until I was a big girl. I was happy in myignorance, for why should I be singled out from all the rest to bear thehonor that was to be thrust upon me? I knew not what was in store forme. "

"One night, when I was about fifteen years old, I dreamed that thespring, near which our kindred live, dried up, and forced us to moveto another spring where we had to stay for two months. When I came tomyself (for it was not so much like sleep as a trance), I wondered;but this passed away after a time, and I had almost forgotten theoccurrence, when one day, about a month later, we were startled byhearing there was no water in the spring. The winter before had beenvery dry, with almost no rain, and fears had been expressed that thespring would fail us, a thing which had not occurred for more than threegenerations. My dream flashed through my mind, only for an instant, butlong enough to imprint the coincidence on my memory. I thought no moreof it, however, until some six months later, after our return to thespring; for, as I saw it in my dream, we had been forced to depart, andto be absent from our beloved dwelling-place for two months. Again Isaw, as in a dream (but this time it was full day, and I knew I was notasleep), our entire tribe in mourning for our chief who was lying deadand surrounded by all the elders. It was like a flash of lightning, leaving me, once more, broad awake, yet I had not been asleep. This timeI was frightened, for I knew there had been members of our tribe whocould foretell the future. Was I to be one of them? I dared not tellany one of my dream, and waited trembling, from day to day, hoping andpraying that it might not come true. But the future had been revealed tome, and a few weeks later our chief fell in a battle with our enemiesto the east. When I heard of it I swooned, and my mother found me lyingsenseless by the fire. After she had revived me, she asked me the causeof my fainting, and, weakened from the shock, I told her all. "

"'Daughter, ' she said, after a long pause, 'you are destined for a greatwork, for Ouiot speaks through you. ' And, a few days later, after theburial of the dead, she told the chief men of the tribe what I had seen. And then ended my happiness: from that day I lived a life of sorrow, for the burden I had to bear was a heavy one: not only when I foretolddisaster and suffering to our people, but when I had joyful news forthem, even then the dread of knowing the future was terrible. Sometimesa half-year would pass without communication from above, and I wouldbegin to hope that the awful gift was taken from me; but always it wouldmanifest itself again. My husband (for I had been married not long aftermy first dream) left me just before your mother was born, but I didnot want, for I was provided with everything by the entire tribe. Yourmother, also, when she grew to be a woman, left me to be married to yourfather; but when he died, he asked me to take care of his only child, and that is why you and I have lived together all these years. "

The old woman paused, and several minutes passed silently in thegathering dusk, while the little girl waited wonderingly, afraid tospeak. Presently the Indian stirred, as if waking from a slumber, and, after a slight shiver, resumed her tale:

"And thus I lived for many years, prophesying as the Great Spiritrevealed the future to me, and my prophecies always came true. Iforetold poor harvests, and the issues of our wars. Only once before thelast prophecy I made was my word doubted, and then unbelief was born inthe minds of many of the men. I spoke the words of truth then, but whenI said we should, in time, vanish from this country, I was treated withscorn. But I was right. Are we greater in numbers than our traditionstell us were our fathers many generations ago? Is it not more difficultto live now than it was in former days? Where are the quail, therabbits, that our ancestors used to kill so plentifully? Are not theygrowing less all the time? And the water! Look--" and the old woman, with arm extended, pointed with her forefinger toward the three drylakes in the distance, only one of which showed any signs of moisture, a small spot in the centre, covered with, perhaps, a foot ofwater--"look, " she repeated, "what were those lakes years ago? Ourfathers tell us that long, long ages past, those three lakes wereone large body of water. Where is it now? Have not I seen, in my ownlifetime, the last one slowly drying up? Where will our game go when ithas quite disappeared? And they laughed at me for telling them. It needsno gift of prophecy to see that. But they heeded me not. What cared theyfor anything so far in the future as that?

"But, " continued the woman, after a pause, dropping her arm in her lap, and speaking in a low, sad voice, "the last time came, and I prophesied, and this time I told wrongly, for Ouiot did not speak through me. Wewere at war with the southern tribe, and it was revealed to me that ourmen should conquer. When I told them, a shout went up, and at once theyset off for our enemies. It was four days before they came back, but Ifelt no foreboding, for never before had I been deceived, and why shouldI be this time? So I waited, confident of the result. Alas! On thefourth day came a messenger with news of the defeat of our army, and themassacre of more than half of the men. For the second time in my life Ifainted. When the men returned, they sought me out, and, with cries andcurses, drove me from my home, and told me never to come back. But, onaccount of the position I had held, they gave me this hut by the springfor a dwelling-place, and suffered me to keep you with me. If I hadbelonged to one of the fierce tribes of Indians to the far east, I thinkthey would have killed me, but we are a milder--people. And here we havelived ever since. After a time I was permitted to visit my kindred, butalways I am greeted with looks of hatred. "

As she crouched in the doorway of the hut, and gazed absently overthe distant view, the young woman was thinking of that day when hergrandmother had told her past history. Well she remembered, that night, and the inspired look on her grandmother's face as she spoke of thefuture of their people. It was the first time she had ever seen her inthat psychic condition, and it was almost terrifying. Since that day, although at rare intervals, her grandmother had given proof of herformer power, and in instances touching the welfare of the tribe; but noone save the young woman knew of it. 

Then she traveled over in thought the following years, until she becamea woman, and was wooed by one of the young men of the tribe, a fewmonths before the date of our story. There had been much opposition tothis on the part of her grandmother and of the elders of the tribe; butthe young people won the day, and her husband had since made his homewith her at the hut. But his marriage with her, in a measure, cut himoff from the rest of the tribe; and gradually, as time went on, he hadfound himself refused the company of his former associates in thehunt, and was forced to make his livelihood, and that of the two women, without the aid of numbers. Until his marriage, the two women hadbeen provided with food by the tribe, but one of the conditions of hiswedding the young woman was that all assistance in that line shouldcease. Henceforward they were to live as though utterly alone. This theyhad done, and a hard struggle it had been at times, when game was scarceand hard to find. But, though suffering hunger and hardship, they hadstayed at the spring, dreading to leave their dwelling-place, and seekother and better hunting-grounds, as is the custom of the Indians whensore pressed for food. 

At this particular moment, her husband was absent on one of his huntingtrips, which generally kept him away for several days. This time, however, he had been from home longer than usual, and the young wife waslooking anxiously for his return, for there was nothing to eat save theremnant of meal in the bottom of the basket, and to-day her grandmotherappeared to be worse. The old woman was dying slowly of old age, aidedby the peculiar hardship of her long life; she had not left her bed forsome time, and the young woman could see that her aged grandparent wasnot long for this world. During her illness (which, however, was more agradual breaking down and dying of her strength than actual illness;for her mind seemed to be as clear as ever) she had given evidences ofhaving something in her thought, some instruction or advice she desiredto impart to her children, but which, so feeble was she, was beyond herstrength to utter. Thus she had lain for three days, motionless, but forthe restless turning of the head, and the burning, gleaming eyes seemingto take the place of her voice, and cry out the message her lips refusedto speak. 

Suddenly the young woman gave a start, and a look of joy passed swiftlyacross her face, for she saw her husband come around the brow of thehill far below. She rose quickly and hastened to meet him. As she nearedhim, she saw he was bearing on his back the carcass of a young deer, under the weight of which he staggered up the hill toward her. Runningto him she cried:

"Itatli! Oh, you are come in time! You have been away so long! But I seeyou have had good luck this time in your hunting. How tired and thin youlook! Have you been far?" and as she spoke, she took the deer from him, and laid it upon her own strong shoulder. 

"Mota, it is a long way I have been, and I am sorely tired. Let me restand have something to eat, and tonight I will tell you where I have beenand what I have seen. How is the grandmother?"

"She is dying, Itatli. She has grown worse every day, and now cannot situp, and she lies all day so still--all but her eyes. She tries to speak, and I am sure she has something on her mind that she wants to tell us. She will not live long. "

Slowly they climbed the hill, with an occasional sentence now and then. Arrived at the hut, the Indian entered, leaned his bow against the wall, near the baskets, and stood regarding the inanimate figure, a sombreexpression stealing over his face as he gazed. The woman's eyes wereclosed, and she seemed to be asleep, nothing but her short, quickbreathing showing she was still alive. For some minutes the man stoodthus, then turned and strode out of the hut, picking up his bow as hepassed it, and carrying it with him. Without a word to his wife, who hadbegun to cook a piece of the deer meat, and was busily at work over theout-door fire, he occupied himself with his bow and arrows, testingthe strength of the cord, made of the intestines of a wild-cat, andexamining closely the arrow-heads, tipped with poison, taken from therattlesnake; but all in an intermittent way, for every few moments heraised his head and gazed long and steadily over the plain to the fardistant hills on the southern horizon. 

At last his wife called to him that the meal was ready. He went over tothe fire and began to eat, while the woman took some of the broth, which she had made out of the meat, put it into a small earthen pot, and carried it to her grandmother, in the hope that she might be able toforce a little of it down her throat. It was of no use: the dying womanwas insensible to all help from food, and lay as in a stupor, from whichit was impossible to rouse her. Mota returned sadly to the fire whereher husband was eating as only a hungry man can eat. 

They finished their meal in silence, and after the wife had put away theremains of the food, she came over to where her husband was sittingin the opening of the hut, and crouched by his side. There, in thegathering gloom of the night, he told of the experiences of his searchfor food. 

"It was a long, long distance I went, Mota, " he began. "I journeyed onand on to the far south, until I reached a river that flows across theplains toward the sea. It was nearing evening of the second day after Icame to the river, when suddenly I heard a queer sound as of the stepsof a small army of some kind of hard-footed animals. It was far inthe distance when first I heard it; for the air was still as thoughlistening to the voice of the Great Spirit, its master; and I listened, rooted to the spot where I stood. What could it be? Never had I heardthe tread of so many animals at one time. Nearer they came, and soon Iheard the voices of men, speaking to each other, but not in any Indianlanguage I am familiar with, and I know several. But if they were menI must hide, for they would take me prisoner, if they did not kill me, should I be seen. So I ran to the rushes growing on the bank of theriver, and sank down among their thickly-growing shoots. The army camenearer steadily, and, in a few moments, I could see them climbing downthe steep bank of the river a little way above me. I took one peep, andmy breath almost left my body, for what I thought were men before I sawthem, now that they came in sight, I knew to be celestial beings. "

"But that could not have been, Itatli, " exclaimed his wife, "for such asight would have blinded, if not killed, you. "

"I know not about that, " answered the man, "but if they were not fromabove, whence came they? They were like me in shape, stature, and allelse but in color and dress. They were white, nearly as white as, thesnow on the distant mountains, and their bodies were completely coveredwith their clothes, excepting only their faces and hands. Their clotheswere not made of skins, but were something different from anything Ihad ever seen; it was more like fine basketwork than anything I know of. They had no bows and arrows, such as ours, but straight, long, brightweapons which glittered in the sun. It may have been a strange kind ofbow, but I could see no arrows, and they did not shoot with them whilenear me. On their heads, they wore a large round covering, which shadedthem from the hot sun, and on their feet they had queer clothes, shapedlike their feet, and these it was which had made me think the sound Iheard was that made by animals. But among them were a few who were likeus, and they may have been Indians, although they had on clothes likethe others; so, perhaps, after all, the white beings were not gods, forthe Indians were in their company and lived. "

The man had talked in low, earnest tones; but as he advanced in histale, his voice, though still low, had taken on a penetrating, vibratingquality that thrilled his wife, and reached the ears of the old woman onthe couch, seeming to rouse her from her lethargy like a voice fromthe grave. She had stirred restlessly two or three times, striving everharder to break the thrall of her weakness: it would have moved theheart of any one beholding her efforts to make herself heard, but shelay unnoticed, for the man was deep in his wonderful narrative, and hiswife listening intently, drinking in every word. At last she attractedthe attention of the two, for her strenuous efforts to speak resulted ina hoarse, guttural sound deep in her throat. They sprang to their feet, and stepped quickly to the couch. There they saw a surprising change inthe countenance of the old woman: her eyes, bright and unclouded as theyhad been before, now looked at them recognisingly, although they stillbore the weighty, thoughtful expression; her mouth, now partly open, wasfull of resolve, and the lips were just shaping the words she was aboutto speak, as the two approached:

"Itatli, I heard the words you have spoken this evening, and I, alone, understand them. You know not what manner of men were those you saw; youknow not, indeed, whether they be men or angels. I will tell you. Theyare men like ourselves, but they come from afar. Listen, my children, "she continued, her voice growing in power and volume, "I will discloseto you what I have never revealed to any one of our people. About twoseasons of rain after I had foretold the future of our tribe, when thelast lake should have become entirely dry, I had a revelation of whatwas to befall all the Indians of this great land, that far surpassedanything I had ever before prophesied. I saw, as in a vision, the greatblue sea sparkling in the sun, the little waves rolling softly to theshore, to break into lines of white foam on the sands of the beach at myfeet. I was alone, but was not afraid, although I had never before seenthe sea, either in my visions or in real life; yet I knew at once whatit was. While I gazed at the water, and watched the waves rushing up tomy feet, I felt, all at once, as though an unseen power was impelling meto look up. I raised my head and gazed out over the water, and there Isaw, far away, a great white object that looked like an immense bird. Iknew, as I know all things that occur in my visions, this was a ship. 

"Presently, the unseen power, as though whispering in my ear, revealedto me that the ship was full of men from a far country, coming to settlein our land, and that they would subdue the Indians, killing many, taking others captive, and making them work for their masters; and that, later, after many years, the Indians would vanish from the land whichhad been theirs since the time when Ouiot was on this earth. Then thevision faded slowly from my sight, and I seemed to enter a luminous mistas I felt myself impelled to walk. After what, in my trance, seemed manyhours, I came out of the mist on to a level stretch of land, throughwhich flowed a large river. There were mountains on the north, reachingfor many miles, and from the west, which was lowland as far as the eyecould see, came the cool afternoon sea wind. In the middle of the plainwas a great tall house, white with a red roof, and at one end hung somebells in openings made for them in the wall. All around were a greatmany houses of brush, much like this we are in, and outside and in werecrowds of Indians working like bees, at all kinds of toil, doing manythings, too, that we never do, such as planting fields with seeds, andgathering the harvest when it was ripe; making cloth for clothes, suchas you, my son, saw those strange men wearing. Then they were makingjars and dishes of clay, and weaving baskets, such as we use. "

"Suddenly, a little time before sunset, while they were at theirbusiest, the bells in the big white house began to ring. Every onestopped working and stood facing the building. Then, as the bells wereringing, they bowed their heads. At this moment, I heard, again, thevoice which yet was not a voice, revealing to me the meaning of thescene before my eyes. 'Behold, ' I seemed to hear, 'the final end of theIndians of this, land! See the fate which is awaiting them! All thesepeoples and tribes, and others far to the north and south of here, willbe brought together into places like unto this. They will be made towork at these white men's tasks; give up their own wild, free life inthe open country; give up their old customs; give up their own god, even, to pray to the God of their masters. And thus will it be for manyyears, until the Indians disappear forever; for, after a time, they willgrow fewer and fewer until not one shall be left in the whole land whichonce they owned. ' Then what seemed a deep sleep fell upon me, and whenI awoke, I was in my own home. I was greatly frightened, but dared nottell any one of my visions; for I knew they would laugh me to scorn, perhaps drive me away, as they did at the last. "

As the old woman described this picture of the future revealed to her, her agitation increased. She raised herself on an arm, and with theother stretched out, she swept her hand along the horizon, from thesouth to the north, saying, as she did so:

"This is the land of the Indians; this Ouiot gave to our fathers, andthey gave it to us. While the sun has been traveling over his pathin the sky for many hundred years, we, and our fathers before us, forgenerations, have lived in this land. But now the end is come. We mustgive way before a people stronger than we; give up our land to them andvanish. "

Her voice increased in volume as she spoke, until, at the close, it wasas powerful as in former days. When she had ceased speaking, she paused, with arm still outstretched, as though transfixed. She gazed steadilyacross the level plain to the distant mountains, motionless and rigid, while the two young Indians waited, awed and afraid, minute afterminute, for they knew not what. 

After a long silence, the aged sibyl let fall her arm, and dropped backsuddenly on to the couch. The fire of prophecy in her eyes was stillundimmed; but turning toward the two waiting ones, she spoke again, yetas if coming back to the present:

"Mota, Itatli, I am going to the distant home of our people, where allare happy. It will be but a few hours before I shall leave you. Do you, my son, after I am dead, go to the village, and tell the chief menall that I have revealed to you to-night. Tell them that, with my lastbreath, I spoke the truth revealed to me by the gods above. Tell themthat the only safety for them, and their children after them, is to livewith the strange white men who are come to our land; that they mustbe at peace with the strangers, live with them, and do all that iscommanded them; that this is the only way they can put off the evil daywhen they shall disappear forever. And it is for a time only at best;but it is better to do that than to resist them, for they are too strongto be driven back. But I fear they will not listen to my words which youshall speak. And if so, you, my children, must leave here and go to thesouth, through the pass in the mountains, then toward the setting sununtil you come to the river; and there you will find the strange men, as in my vision. Put yourselves under their care, and perhaps Ouiot willspare you, and the others there before you, from the fate of the rest ofthe tribes in this land. "

Her voice sank to a whisper, so that it was with difficulty they madeout her last words. Closing her eyes, she lay gasping for some minutes;after this, she fell into a comatose state, from which she did notrevive again. Hour after hour passed, the two watchers crouchingmotionless, without a word, regarding the fleeting breath of the dyingwoman. Shortly before the dawn began to lighten the horizon, a tremorpassed through the body of the sufferer; a long, feeble sigh issued fromher lips, and the aged, distrusted seer was no more. 

The young woman, on seeing this, broke out into bitter wailing, swayingslowly forward and backward, while her husband sat with his head bowedon his knees. Their first thought was of utter bereavement, for to thesetwo lonely ones, and especially to the woman, the grandparent had beennot only the sole member of their tribe they had known for years, butshe had proved to them a help, at times through her singular gift. Onseveral occasions, in seasons of little game, had she told the man inwhich direction, to go for the best results. Once, at her instance, theyhad migrated to a distant spring she had known in her youth, where thethree were safe from the murderous designs of the warlike tribe comingto their country from the north. 

Finally the man bethought himself of the last behest of the dead woman. "I go to the village, Mota, " he said hoarsely, and without another wordleft the hut and set off down the hill. 

The woman moved not, but remained as before, near the bed of hergrandmother. There she sat, on the earthen floor, without taking hereyes from the face of the dead, until her husband returned, nearly threehours later. 

"It was no use, " he exclaimed sadly, "they would not listen, but told meto go back and bury the grandmother; they would not come with me. "

Mota replied not. 

That night, as the sun was setting, the two lone creatures made a graveon the hill a few feet from the hut, and there they buried the mortalremains of the old Indian woman. It was a sad, silent rite; both feltdeeply the absence of all their friends and kindred; the lack of allthe customary wailing proper to the solemn service of burial; but, aboveall, the want of belief in the dead woman's prophecy. That gave thepoignant touch to their sorrow. Sadly and silently, as they had buriedthe dead, they returned to their hut in the gathering shades of night. 

The next morning, these two bereaved ones, packing up their few simplebelongings, stole sorrowfully away from their home. They knew not whatwas before them, scarcely anything of the country whither they werebound; but such was their faith in the dead woman's word, that they didnot falter in their resolution to fulfill her admonition. 

The hut, and all belonging to it, is long passed away; and the spring, also, has disappeared, drying up till merely a stony furrow in theground shows where it once had its course. Only the lonely grave on thehillside remains to mark the ancient Indian habitation here, and that, today, is almost obliterated. As for the village beyond in the canyon, that, too, is no more; hardly a vestige can now be found to tell usthat here, long ago, was a thriving Indian settlement. All is silentand deserted. Truly, as the aged Indian prophetess foretold, has theaborigine vanished from the land. 

The Flight of Padre Peyri

One of the few settlements of the old mission Indians remaining inCalifornia is Pala, a little village tucked away amidst some of the mostcharming scenery to be found in the southern part of the state. It istwenty miles east from Mission San Luis Rey, of which mission it was anasistencia, or branch, and twenty-four miles from Oceanside, the nearestpoint on the coast. The village stands in a valley which is completelysurrounded by mountains, high and low, far and near, uniting with itin a succession of beautiful pictures around the entire horizon. Tothe east, the mountains pile themselves up into huge masses, their tipshidden frequently by clouds, and by the fogs of early morning; towardthe west, they fall away into low-lying hills, allowing the sea-breezeof every warm afternoon to sweep the village over them, and through thegap of the San Luis Rey River and Valley. At all times of the year thecolor and light and shade in every part of the valley are most lovely, delighting the artist's eye with a whole gamut of aerial perspective;but it is in the spring that the hillsides and valley put on theirmost gorgeous robes, from the lightest tints of yellow and green, downthrough every hue and tone of red, blue and purple, soft and brilliant, pricked out here and there with spots of intense, flaming yellow andorange, or deepest crimson. Such color scenes are not common even inCalifornia; but on account of its comparative inaccessibility, fewpeople visit Pala, and the village has been left much to itself in theselatter days of American life in the state. The Indians live the lifeof the poorest class of Mexicans, dwell in adobe huts, and pursue anagricultural occupation. 

During the last week of May, 1895, I passed two days in this interestingplace, exploring the remains of the asistencia, and sketching the uniquebell-tower and near-by mission houses. I was an object of interest toall who saw me, but was not favored with much company until the secondafternoon, when, after I had passed an hour or so in the campo santo, an old Indian slowly appeared and greeted me. He must have been nearlyeighty years old, and he was obliged to use a cane to assist his slowand faltering steps. Several times during the two days I had seen him, sitting in the sun on the rough porch of a house close by, or amblingslowly about, and had been struck with his appearance. Although bentwith his years, he was tall, and, in his younger days, must have had agraceful, as well as powerful, figure, traces of it remaining still, in spite of his decrepitude. But his face was the most noticeable thingabout him. Notwithstanding the dimness of age, there was a wonderfulamount of intelligence and animation in his expression, and the deep, black eyes could hardly have been brighter and more piercing at the ageof forty than they now appeared. His long straight hair was still thick, but very grey. He wore the ordinary dress of the poor man. He was, infine, a specimen of what the missions could do with the Indians whenworking on the best material to be found among them. 

"Buenos dias, Senor, " he said gravely, as he came near. 

"Buenos dias. "

"Will the Senor be disturbed if I stay here awhile and watch him work?"he continued in Spanish, which he spoke rather slowly, but with as muchease and correctness as a Mexican. 

I answered I should be glad to have him remain so long as he pleased, and, in return, after he had seated himself beside me on an old ruinedadobe wall, asked if he had lived long here. 

"For over sixty years, Senor. "

"And where did you spend your early years, for I think you have seenmany more than sixty?" I asked. 

"Si, Senor, I am eighty-one now. Until I was about twenty, I lived atMission San Luis Rey, twenty miles from here. Has the Senor ever seenSan Luis Rey?"

I nodded, continuing with my sketch. 

"Ah! that was a beautiful mission sixty years ago, " the old man said, ina tone of sad retrospect. 

"Tell me about it, " I said. "In those days, sixty years ago, the missionmust have been perfect, with no ruins to mar its beauty. And were therenot many neophytes at that time?" I added. 

"Senor, San Luis Rey was the largest mission in California. So muchlarger than this place, although Pala had many more Indians in thosedays, before the padres were driven away, that it seemed to me like acity. There were more than two thousand Indians, and all worked busilyfrom morning until night, the men plowing and planting in the fields, ormaking adobes for building houses, and the women weaving and sewing andcooking. Every one had something to do, and knew it must be done, andall were willing and glad to do it; for we all dearly loved the padre, he was so good, and it was a happiness to do what he demanded of us. "

"You speak of Padre Peyri, do you not?" I asked. 

"Si, Senor. Padre Peyri was the head of the mission, and no one coulddo anything unless he had the padre's consent. There was almost alwaysa second padre there, but this second padre never stayed long, and whenone went away, another would come in his place; but Padre Peyri wasthere all the time, and never left the mission until he went back toMexico. "

"And what, " I asked, "did you do in those days, before you were largeenough for a man's work?"

"I worked with the children, for the children had their own work to dojust the same as the grown people. We had to go to school at the missionevery day, to learn to speak Spanish, and to say the doctrina cristiana, to read and write; but not all the children could get so far as towrite, for it was hard for them to learn, and only the brightest oneswere ever able to write more than their names. But it was not so hardfor me, for I wished to learn, and the padres liked to teach me. Then, after school, we had other work--to fetch wood for the fires; to drivethe cows to the fields; to feed and water the horses at the mission, andall such things that boys can do. There were a hundred boys or more inthe country around, and many of them seldom came to the mission exceptfor school and Sunday mass; but there were always enough, and more thanenough, to do all the work, and they had plenty of time for play. Butmy work was different from that of the other boys. I was one of the twoboys who waited on the padres at meal times, swept the mission roomsand walks, and were ready to do any errands the padres wished. Then, forthree years, I was one of the altar boys, until I could play well enoughto go into the choir. And that is what I liked better than anythingelse--to play on my violin. I began to learn when I was twelveyears old. I used to listen to the boys of the choir, when they werepracticing their mass music, and again on Sundays in the church, andwish I, too, could learn to make that beautiful music. Many times Iimplored the padre to let me learn, and he would say: 'After a little, my son, when you are old enough; it is a difficult instrument to learn. 'I knew he was right, but did not like to wait. At last, however, he toldme I was to begin, and the very next day gave me a violin, and sent meto the choir teacher. It was a happy day for me. "

"Tell me something about Padre Peyri, " I asked. 

"Senor, I could talk all day long about that good man. He was so kindand gentle to all, that no one but would have been willing to die forhim, if he had asked such a thing. He was not a large man, but was asstrong as many of the Indians, and he worked as hard as any one of us. Ihave heard my mother tell how he helped with his own hands to build thechurch and the other houses of the mission, and worked all day, so longas it was light, hardly stopping to take time to eat. She said he seemedto think of nothing but to get all the buildings finished, and wasunhappy until that was done. She saw him on the day he first came fromMission San Diego with a few workmen and soldiers to start the mission. It was in the afternoon, and the padre and his men passed the time tillnightfall in making a few huts for themselves like those of the Indians. The next morning, before he would permit anything else to be done, hemade an altar of earth, which he covered all over with the green growinggrass, and there offered up a sacrifice to his God. He had with him somechildren he had brought from San Diego, and after the mass he baptizedthem. My mother and some of the Indians had been to San Diego, to themission there, and were not afraid, but nearly all the Indians did notdare come near. 

"As soon as the mass was ended, the padre marked out on the ground thelines for the mission buildings, and the men went to work makingadobes. After a few days, the Indians began to lose their fear of thecristianos, and it was not long before they were helping in all the workto be done. The padre paid them every day for what they did; he wouldgive them clothes or something to eat, and they were very glad to workfor him; and it was only a short time when a great crowd was busy on thebuildings. My mother told me all this, Senor, for that was long beforeI was born, --more than fifteen years. She was a young girl then. Mymother told the Indians how good the padres were to them at San Diego, and did all she could to bring them to work for the mission. I washer first child, and, at her wish, the padre named me afterhimself--Antonio. But all the mission buildings were finished in a fewyears, and they, have never been changed except by falling into ruins. I have not been to San Luis Rey for a long, long time, for I cannot bearto go there and see the poor old buildings tumbling to the ground--atleast that is what they were doing until Padre O'Keefe came from SantaBarbara to live there and take charge of the mission. I am glad it isin his care; but he cannot bring back the old days, for the Indians arenearly all gone now. 

"But the Senor wishes to hear about the padre. I think Padre Peyri wasnearly fifty years old when I was born, and he had been at the missionall the time since he started it, about fifteen years before. How hedid love his mission, and how proud he was of it! And he was right tobe proud, for it was the finest mission in the country, and the largestalso. Every one who came there praised the padre for the wonders he haddone; and that made him very happy. After his day's work was over, he liked to walk about in the neighborhood, looking at, and seeing, everything--the ground, the trees and the sky, listening to the singingof the birds, and watching the sun sink out of sight in the west; butabove all else, gazing at the mission, at the beautiful big church, andthe building and arches around the patio. Sometimes when I came to himat his bidding, I would see him smiling to himself, as though he washappy to have been able to raise up such a good work to his Lord. 

"But alas! Senor, those happy times could not last always. I do notunderstand very well the trouble that was between the missions and theGovernor--it has always been too much for my poor head--but I supposethe Senor knows all about it. The Governor wished the Indians to betaken away from the missions, and live in pueblos of their own; but theIndians did not like it, nor the padres either; and it made trouble formany years. I was too young to think much about it, but I used to hearthe Indians talking among themselves of what they heard from time totime. I asked my father why the Governor could take the Indians awayfrom the missions. He told me it was the wish of Mexico that we shouldnot live in the missions any longer, but have our own land, and work formoney. 'But must we leave our padre here, and not see him any more?' Iasked my father. 

"'We may have to go away from here, ' he answered, 'but the padre wouldbe our padre still, and we should see him at mass and at other times;but it would not be as it is now. '"

"'I will never leave here, ' I said to him, 'as long as the padre stays;I do not want to go off to work for myself. '"

"But the change, Senor, was long in coming, and before it did come, there was another and a greater change at the mission. Well do Iremember the day when first I knew, without a doubt, that our old lifewas at an end. It was a dark and stormy Saturday in early winter. Justbefore nightfall, a traveler arrived at the mission from the north. Alone and riding slowly a tired horse, which looked as if it had beendriven long and hard, he approached, gazing around at the church and allthe buildings within sight. I was driving one of the cows home fromthe pasture to provide milk for the padre's supper, and saw him as hereached the mission. As soon as I came up to him, he asked me:"

"'Is the padre here?'"

"'Si, Senor. '"

"'Tell him Don Manuel wishes to see him at once, ' he said, in acommanding tone. "

"Calling one of the boys not far away to look after the cow, and to takecare of the stranger's horse, I went to the padre's room and knocked. After waiting a moment, and getting no reply, I knocked again. Hearingno sound, I opened the door and went in. The room was empty, but thedoor leading into a small side room, from which was an entrance into thechurch for the padre's use, stood open, and I knew he was in the church. At any other time I would have hesitated, but the traveler had spokenso sternly that I dared not delay, so went on into the church. There wasthe padre kneeling before the altar of our patron saint, San Luis Rey, his rosary of beautiful gold beads and ivory cross in his hands; but sostill one would have said he himself was a statue. I waited again, inhopes he would finish his prayer and come away; but the minutes wentby and still he did not move. At last I stepped toward him, stumbling alittle against one of the seats that he might know some one was there. He heard the sound and, rising slowly, turned and came toward the doornear which I stood. When he saw me he asked what was wanted. I toldhim. "

"Is it come at last?' he said, more to himself than to me, and walkedslowly, with bowed head, out of the church. I followed, closing thedoor of the church and of the little side room, and saw once morethe traveler, as he rose from his knees, after receiving the padre'sblessing. A moment later he followed the padre into his room. "

"I did not see them again until supper time, when I had to wait attable. They had been some minutes at supper, but were so occupied withtheir talk that they had eaten scarcely anything. The stranger wasspeaking when I went in. "

"'But, padre, ' he said, 'what will become of your charge here, if youcarry out your intention? You know they look up to you as the head andsoul of this great mission, and would be, indeed, as sheep without theirshepherd, if you--'"

"'My son, ' interrupted the padre, with a look toward me, 'we will speakof that another time. '"

"Nothing more was said until after I had left them. I had seen the lookthe padre sent in my direction. Had not it been at a time when every onewas fearing a change of some kind at the mission, I should have thoughtnothing of it; but at the time, I knew we might expect something tooccur almost any day; so that when he interrupted the stranger, it wasonly after enough had been said to fill me with fear. I knew, from whathe said about the sheep being without a shepherd, that we might, insome way, lose our padre. As soon as I was free I hastened out to findMiguel, the boy who had taken the stranger's horse. He had gone to hishouse, a little way from the church. "

"'Miguel, ' I asked, 'do you know who is this visitor, Don Manuel, andwhy he is come?'"

"'He came from Los Angeles, on important business with the padre, 'Miguel replied. "

"'How do you know he is from Los Angeles, and that his business isimportant?'"

"'Because, while you were seeking the padre, Don Manuel was so impatientat your delay that he could not stand still, and kept striding up anddown the length of the arcade, muttering to himself. Once I caught thewords that if the padre but knew the importance of his business, hewould make great haste. When I led away his horse, he told me to takegood care of it, for it must carry him as far on his way tomorrow as ithad to-day from Los Angeles. '"

"'And what is this important business?'"

"'Quien sabe!' answered Miguel, with a shrug of his shoulders. "

"This was very little to be sure, and it served only to increase my fearthat all was not right. "

"But I heard nothing further that night. "

"The next day was the Sabbath. Nothing occurred before mass; breakfastwas eaten by the stranger, alone in the padres' dining-room, and thepadre was not seen by any one until the hour for mass. The other padrewas here at Pala to take the place of the fraile who was sick. Thebeautiful church was crowded, every neophyte casting a glance now andthen at Don Manuel, who was seated in front, watching the door by whichthe padre was to enter. But it was not until all had begun to wonderwhat was the reason for his delay, and to grow uneasy and whisper softlyto each other, looking at the stranger as though they connected him withsome trouble about to befall the mission and their padre. For in thosedays very little was necessary to stir up fears of a change all knewmight come suddenly at any time. At last the door opened, and the padrecame slowly into the church. He was pale, and looked sad and troubled, but went through the service in his usual manner. But when he came tothe sermon, it seemed as if he could not go on. He did not take a textfrom which to preach, but began at once to talk to us in his earnest, gentle voice, saying we must look to God as our father, as one who lovedus and would guide us in all this life. Padre Peyri did not preach to uslike the fathers at other missions: he seldom said anything about helland the punishments waiting for us if we were wicked, but talked to usand preached about the love of God and His Son Jesus Christ, and ourduty to them, not from fear of future punishment, but because we owed itto them, as we owed our earthly parents love and respect. This morninghe was more than ever solemn, and before the close of his short talk, many of his listeners had tears in their eyes. More than once he had tostop for a moment, to regain control of his voice which, all through histalk, trembled and sometimes was hardly above a whisper. As soon asthe service was ended, he left the church, followed quickly by thestranger. "

"I hastened from the choir and church to the padre's room to be ready athand in case he should want anything. He was not there, but I found himin the patio, talking earnestly with Don Manuel, as they walked up anddown the cloister. As soon as he saw me, he told me to give orders tohave the visitor's horse ready for him immediately after dinner. Idid so, and on coming back from the large dining-room, where I told myerrand to one of the mozos, found the padre and Don Manuel just sittingdown to their own dinner. The padre ate little; but there was nothingelse to make me think that anything was wrong, and had not it been forthe night before, and the morning's mass, I should have thought nothingof it. But now every little thing was large and important in my eyes;and although nothing was said but what might have been said by anyvisitor at any time, I grew more and more heavy-hearted. After they hadfinished eating, which they did very quickly, the stranger preparedto leave. Gathering up his sombrero and zarape, and receiving a smallpackage, which looked like a bundle of letters, from the padre, hestrode out to his horse, already waiting for him in front of thebuilding, the padre close behind him. "

"I took my place by the horse, and pretended to be looking at thesaddle, to see that everything was right, while I tried to hear what thepadre and Don Manuel were saying; but they spoke too low for me to makeout more than a word now and then. I heard Don Manuel say 'San Diego;''the Pocahontas, a small ship but;' 'Spain, ' and a few other words of nosignificance. Padre Peyri said hardly a word, but stood with bowed head, and eyes cast on the ground. At last Don Manuel knelt to receive thepadre's blessing, and with a last low sentence, and an 'adios, ' spokenaloud, as he sprang to his horse, he dashed off down the hill until hecame to the mission road which runs from San Diego into the far north. The padre watched him turn his horse's head toward the south, anddisappear behind a hill; a few minutes later he came into sight again ashe ascended another hill until at last he stood on the top. With a longlook at the rider hurrying away in the distance, the padre turned and, without a word to me, went into the house and shut himself in his room. "

"Senor, that was the last time I saw him at the mission. Padre Asnzar, who had been at Pala that day, returned to the mission in the afternoon, and I saw him at supper, but Padre Peyri did not come out of his roomthe rest of the day. Late that night I wandered around the church, sosad and full of fear of what I knew was coming, that I could not sleep. There was a light in the church, and I was sure the padre was in there, but, of course, I could not go in to see, and speak to him. After alittle while the light disappeared, and I went back to my bed. "

"Although I now felt certain I knew what the padre was going to do, fromwhat I had heard and seen, yet I knew nothing of the time, and did notdream it was so near. But early the next morning I knew all. I was on myway to the padre's house, when I met Miguel coming toward me on the run. As soon as he came near he cried to me:"

"'Antonio, el padre se ha ido (the padre is gone)! His horse is nothere, nor his saddle. '"

"My heart stood still. So all that I had feared the day before was cometrue, and our beloved padre had left us. But how suddenly it had takenplace! I thought of 'San Diego' and 'the small ship Pocahontas, ' andknew all. I had not seen Miguel since my talk with him two nightsbefore, and he knew nothing of what had occurred. I now told himeverything. "

"'Dios mio! Our padre gone away, not to come back? Oh, why did hego? Why did not he stay with us? What shall we do without him?' heexclaimed. "

"While Miguel was crying in this manner, I was like one stunned, andknew not what to do. Suddenly a thought came to me. "

"Miguel, let us follow him, and, if we can, persuade him to come back. I know he did not go willingly, but was driven to it by the Governor andhis people; for you know he has often said that here was his home, andhere he intended to stay, until his death. '"

"'But, Antonio, what can we two do? He would not listen to us, and, besides, he must be too far ahead now to be overtaken. And the ship mayhave left before we get to San Diego. You did not hear when it was tosail?'"

"'No, but we can come up with him, I am sure, before he reaches SanDiego, if we waste no time. Come, I am going to tell my father, and getmy horse, and be off. ' And I started on the run for my father's house, which was not far from the church. I found him just leaving for hiswork, and told him, in a few words, what had happened. He was not sosurprised as I thought he would be, for he was an old man, and knew moreof all that was taking place in the country, than was possible for me, amere boy. "

"'Go, Antonio, ' he said. 'I shall follow you;' and he turned away intothe house. "

"I waited not to see what he would do, but darted away, and, catching myhorse, was off as hard as I could ride. Before I had gone many rods, Iheard a horse's gallop behind me, and, looking back, saw Miguel at fullspeed. I stopped to permit him to come up with me, and then, without aword, we went on together. "

"There are nearly ten leagues between San Luis Rey and San Diego, Senor; and as we were determined to reach there by noon, we said verylittle during the whole ride, but urged our horses to their utmost. After going a few miles, we came to the shore, and went along by theocean, sometimes on the beach itself, sometimes on the mesa above. Butswiftly as we went, the sun was still quicker, and it was nearly noonwhen we came in sight of San Diego. We hastened on, past houses, thepresidio, and down to the edge of the water, taking no notice of themen, women and children, who gazed wonderingly after us. Out in the bay, not far from the shore, lay a ship with sails spread, ready to startwith the first puff of wind, which began faintly to blow as we reachedthe water. On the deck there were many people, passengers and sailors, and among them we saw our padre, a little apart from the others, andgazing toward the land he was leaving. By his side stood Don Manuel, whohad been at the mission the day before, and with them were two of themission Indians. I envied them, Senor, and wished I could have beenthere also, for my heart was breaking at the thought of losing mybeloved padre. At first he did not notice us, but when, with a cry, wecalled to him, he started as he saw us standing on the beach, with ourarms held out to him. Just at that instant, we heard a distant sound ofhorses coming hard and fast over the ground toward us. Looking around, we saw a sight that made us thrill: a great throng of men, each oneurging on with whip and spur the horse he was riding. We did not at onceknow what it meant, but, in a second or two, understood. It was a bandof Indians from our mission. Madly they dashed down to the shore, sprangfrom their horses, and fell on their knees--some on the beach, somehalf in the water, so great was the crowd--imploring, with heartbreakingcries, our padre to have pity on them and not leave them. There werenearly five hundred men, and their lamentations were terrible to hear. "

"But the sails had filled with the freshening breeze, and the ship wasfast getting under way. The padre gazed at us all, long and sorrowfully, and, with arms raised up to Heaven, in a faltering voice, which we couldscarcely hear from the increasing distance, called down the blessing ofGod on us. With groans and cries we watched the ship sail away, and asit faded into the distance, we saw our beloved padre kneeling on thedeck in prayer. "

"Senor, there is no more to tell. We waited there on the beach untilthe ship had disappeared; then slowly, one by one, found each our horse, and set out for the mission. All night we rode, not caring how or whenwe should get there. When we reached the mission, we found the women andchildren gathered together, waiting for us. As soon as they saw us theyburst out weeping and lamenting, for, by our manner, they knew our padrewas gone. Silently we turned loose our horses, and went back to our oldlife and work, but with sorrow in our hearts. That is all, Senor. "

I had listened to the old man with great and constantly increasinginterest, and long before he had finished, found myself with brush heldidly in my hand. He had told his story with simple earnestness, crossed, now and then, with deep emotion, as his love for the Franciscan father, and sorrow at his loss, came to the surface. After an interval ofsilence, I asked him if he had ever heard of the padre since that day. 

"Only two or three times, " he answered. "A few months afterward we hadnews of him from Mexico; he was then about to return to Spain. Two yearsafter we heard he was at his old home and, a little later, that he wasgone to Rome. Some one told us he lived there till his death, but wenever knew positively. "

Padre Peyri is one of the most picturesque figures in California'smission history: the zeal he showed in calling his mission intoexistence; the intensity of enthusiasm with which he labored for it; hislong career of usefulness; the love the neophytes had for him; hisagony at the ruthless destruction of the missions--too great for himto endure, old and feeble as he then was growing; and his dramaticdeparture, hastening away under cover of the night, to escape theimportunities of his devoted flock: all this had been pictured with keenclearness in the old Indian's simple tale. 

I thanked him for his story as he rose to go. Wishing me "adios" withgrave politeness, he walked slowly away, and left me to dream of the oldmission times, full of color and romance, which have given so much tothe present day, until the sun sinking behind the hills in the westrecalled me to myself and my surroundings. 

I fear I shall never again see Pala; but I shall not forget its charmand beauty, the quaint old campanario and near-by buildings, and, aboveall, Antonio, the Indian, and his tale of mission life in the old days. 

Father Zalvidea's Money

Father Zalvidea was in despair! After having lived for twenty yearsat Mission San Gabriel, devoting himself all that time to bringing themission to a condition of so great size and wealth that it took itsplace at the head of nearly all of the missions of Nueva California, toiling from morning until night with untutored neophytes and strivingto hammer something of civilization into their heads--now he was to beremoved. He had seen this very thing threatening for many days, buthad hoped and prayed that it might not be; he had mustered up boldnessenough to address President Tapis at Monterey, beseeching that he mightbe continued at San Gabriel, bringing to bear the weight of all he haddone, and the flourishing condition the mission was in under his charge. It was of no avail. The night before, he had received a letter by thepost messenger on his way to San Diego, charging the Father to preparefor removal to Mission San Juan Capistrano, his future field of work. After a sleepless night of vain repining, he had risen early andwandered out into his garden, back of the church, his favorite resortwhen in a meditative mood, or when he wished to escape intrusion ofwhatever sort. 

Father Zalvidea's garden was a warm, sunny place, filled to overflowingwith flowers and plants and trees. It covered nearly an acre of ground, bounded on one side by the church, on part of the adjoining side bythe Father's house, close by the church; from here the ground slopedgradually to the west, leaving open to view the San Gabriel Mountains, towering high above the plain. The Father had planned this garden soonafter coming to the mission, and had laid it out with all the talent ofa landscape artist. In the corner bounded by the church and his house, he had planted most of the trees--olive, lemon and peach, and a fewpalms--disposing them skillfully for shade, while at the same timeleaving vistas of the adobe church, golden yellow in the sunlight;beyond were placed the flowering plants--roses in immense numbers, agreat variety of lilies of different tints, a few century plants, one ofthem with its huge flower stalk high in air, and a large passion vine, trained along the adobe wall enclosing the garden on the west. Thesewere the most prominent of the plants, brought from Mexico and Spain, reminding him of his old home; and interspersed with these were a goodlynumber of vegetables, for this garden was not wholly for pleasure, butserved as a source of supply for the Father's, table. Paths there werenone. Every spot of ground, where there was nothing growing, was hardand smooth like a path, baked as it was by the sun after every rain. Atfirst the Father had tried to grow grass in some parts of his garden, but soon gave it up on account of the constant attention it needed, anddisliking the tough wiry grass, native to the region, he trained hisplants to cover the ground, letting them spread and wander much attheir will. Here was his rest from the many and varied labors in a NuevaCalifornia mission; and here he was to be found when at leisure, seeingif his plants were given the proper attention by his gardener, studyingchanges from time to time in their arrangement, or wandering about, nowhere, now there, with eyes bent on the ground, meditating on his duties, or gazing off to the distant horizon, and dreaming of his early life inhis boyhood home. 

But this morning Father Zalvidea was thinking of anything but. Spain, or even of his garden, as he passed slowly back and forth among theplants. His thoughts were occupied with the instructions he had receivedthe night before. One must put one's self in the Father's place, andknow something of his life and surroundings, to appreciate the reasonfor his dislike to the proposed change. The missions in Nueva Californiawere lonely, isolated spots of civilization in the midst of many Indiantribes. Each one, twenty to fifty miles distant from the neighboringmission on either side, lived, in a great measure, solely for itself, as it was dependent, in most things, on itself alone. There wascommunication, of course, between the different missions, with thepresident at Monterey, and with Mexico; but, occasionally, weeks wouldgo by without a single messenger from the outside world, duringwhich time each mission was a little world by itself. This tended tostrengthen the love for locality, which was still farther increasedfrom the fathers' having no family ties, leading them, each one, in hiscelibate state, to become more deeply attached to his own particularfield of labor, with an intensity not often seen in other classes ofmen. Thus our Father Zalvidea had been so long at Mission San Gabriel, that he had come to look on it almost as his own, in more senses thanthe one strictly of being its religious and temporal head. He hadcarried on the good work, begun by his predecessor, Father Sanchez, and had brought the mission to such a state of prosperity, that it wassecond to none in wealth, and to but few in number of Indian neophytes. Now, as he wandered around in his garden, he gazed at the buildings ofhis establishment scattered, near and far, in every direction; at thechurch, close by, which, although not as fine as those at some of themissions--San Luis Rey and Santa Barbara, for instance--was a goodsolid structure, imposing in its appearance of strength; his own abodeadjoining; the low adobe houses of the Indians everywhere; the corralsof livestock on the foothills in the distance. Finally his eye restedon the vineyards stretching away toward the north and west, so far thatthey seemed without end. These vineyards were the pride of the Father'sheart, for the culture of the grape was one of his hobbies, and hereat San Gabriel he had carried out his theories in viticulture sosuccessfully that his vineyards, and the wine and brandy made from them, were famous throughout the length of the land, and much sought after bythe other missions, as well as by Mexico. No wonder the Father was proudof his success, for this product was a mine of wealth to the mission. Now, however, there was no pride in his glance, as he looked long andsorrowfully at his vineyards; he was thinking gloomily that they were nolonger his, and that he must leave this place, which he was come to lovewith all the repressed passion of his heart. It was not as though hewere going to a poor and mean mission, as were some of those inNueva California. Father Zalvidea had been more than once to San JuanCapistrano, fifty miles south of San Gabriel, and knew well that it waslarge, although not as rich as it had been at one time; but his was thenature of the cat, which always returns to its old home. Father Zalvideaknew a priest was needed at San Juan Capistrano, and none was asavailable as himself; but he was human, and this last sacrifice of selfwas more than he could make without a murmur. 

At last he returned to his house, and, after breakfast, began to makehis preparations. A week later saw him leaving the mission with hispersonal belongings, the most valuable of which appeared to be a heavywooden box, about the size and shape of a brick, and which he would notallow out of his own hands, but carried with him, fastened to the pommelof his saddle. What was in this box no one knew but the Father himself. 

Behold Father Zalvidea at Mission San Juan Capistrano! Although at firstmurmuring at the change of his scene of labor, yet, after finding itinevitable, he had submitted to it with all due humility, and withenergy and even enthusiasm had thrown himself into the work at hand. Mission San Juan Capistrano was fallen away sadly from the high positionit had held ten years before: neophytes were still many, but theyhad been allowed to follow their own devices; the religious life, consequently, was neglected, as well as the cultivation of the missionlands. It was a sad prospect that met the Father's eyes, the first timehe took a survey of the fields and corrals and vineyards of the mission. On every side his well-trained eye saw the marks of lack of care inhusbandry--the fields of wheat and corn were only half cultivated;the livestock in the corrals looked poor and thin; while as for thevineyards--! Father Zalvidea sighed deeply as he gazed at what werethe merest apology for vineyards, judging from his high standard, andcompared them mentally with those cared for so lovingly at MissionSan Gabriel. He saw, at a glance, just what was needed, and set aboutbringing them up to a point somewhat approaching his ideal. 

But before giving his attention to these mundane things, Father Zalvideahad to do much for the spiritual side of the mission and its people;for it was in a more deplorable state in this respect than in that ofmaterial welfare. Fourteen years before, Mission San Juan Capistranohad had the finest church in Nueva California, the pride of the wholecountry. Father Zalvidea had been present at its dedication, theoccasion of great ceremony amidst a vast throng of neophytes, and allthe Spanish dignitaries that could be gathered together. But the missionhad enjoyed its beautiful church only a few years when it suffered amost awful calamity. One Sunday morning, when the church was crowdedwith Indians at mass, there was heard in the hush of prayer, a distantnoise, like the sound of a great rush of stormwind, which, a momentlater, reached the mission, and with the rocking of the earth and therending of walls, the tower of the new church fell on the people below, shrieking as they fled. Forty were killed on the spot, as well as manywounded. This catastrophe was by far the worst ever visited on themissions, and it was long before San Juan Capistrano recovered from theblow--never, in fact, so far as the church was concerned, for it was toobadly injured to be repaired, and the fathers could not summon upenergy enough to build another. Since that dire Sabbath, a room in theadjoining building had been used as a church. Father Zalvidea'sgreatest desire, next to seeing the vineyards brought up to their propercondition, was to build a new church, and these were the only mitigatingcircumstances in his regretted change of residence; but he had been onlya few days at his new home, when he gave up his purpose with regard tothe church; it was beyond his power, as he saw. San Juan Capistrano hadbeen too long on the decline, and the neophytes were too indifferent, toundertake this work. 

So our Father Zalvidea confined himself to the simple religious dutiesof his position, and left such grand projects as building a new churchto the future. He had enough, and more than enough, to occupy allhis time, and he soon ceased to sigh for his old home at San Gabriel, indeed, almost to think of it. It was only at rare intervals that hefound time, after the day's work was done, to take a little pasear inthe mission garden in front of the monastery. But this garden was a poormakeshift; the plants were of the commonest kinds, and were choked withweeds. Still, the Father found comfort in it, and with his oversight itwas soon a fairly respectable garden. So the months flew by. 

It was more than a year after Father Zalvidea's advent at Mission SanJuan Capistrano, when he bethought himself one day of the littlewooden box he had brought with him. On arriving, he had deposited ittemporarily at the bottom of a large chest which stood in his room, and which was used for storing away papers and records of the mission. Hidden as the box was, under piles of papers, the Father felt tolerablysafe regarding his treasure, and immured as he had been ever since, inthe busy affairs needing his whole time and attention, he had almostforgotten it. But on this day he had made up his mind to hide it moreeffectually. Late that night, after the entire mission was still insleep, he took out the box, placed it on the table, and by the light ofa candle, opened it with a small key which he wore, hung by a slenderblack silk cord, round his neck underneath his Franciscan robe. Insidewere five gleaming rows of gold coins-bright new Spanish onzas, everyone looking as if just fresh from the mint. There were one hundred andtwenty-five coins, each worth about sixteen dollars of American money, making the contents of the box amount to two thousand dollars--a goodlysum, indeed, for a poor Spanish priest in Nueva California to possess. Lying on top of the rows of coins was a slip of paper, on which waswritten in Spanish:

"My dearest one, pray to God and Our Lady to bless your poor Dolores. "

Father Zalvidea read the paper, then kissing it passionately, fell onhis knees, and, with trembling voice, offered up his petitions to Christfor a blessing on the loved one in the far away land. 

This box contained the romance of Father Zalvidea's life. Years before, when a young man, and ere he had had any thought of becoming a priest, he had been enamored of a beautiful Andalusian maiden, who returned hislove. But Dolores's father was rich, and looked with disfavor upon poorJose Zalvidea, and at length forced his daughter to marry a suitor hehad chosen for her--a man three times her age, but with a fortune equalto that which was to be hers at her father's death; for she was hisonly child. Jose, heart-broken, entered a seminary to study for thepriesthood, and gave himself up to his new work, striving to drown hissorrow. A few years later, he was selected to make one of a number ofyoung priests to go to Mexico. The last time he had heard confessionsin the parish church, a woman, heavily veiled, entered the confessional, and, in a whisper, interrupted by sobs, asked for his blessing. At herfirst word he recognized Dolores's voice, and with a smothered cry, fellback, almost unconscious, in his seat. This was the first time he hadseen her since her unhappy marriage, five years before. Recoveringhimself, he asked her, coldly, why she was there. With sobs she told himshe had a small box which she would leave in the confessional for him. On his asking what was in it, and what she wished him to do with it, she said it was a small sum of money which he must take with him on hisjourney, and always keep by him, and if, at any time, or when old ageovertook him, he were in want, to use it. "You are going far away, " shesaid. "I shall never see you, may never hear of you, again. I know apriest's life is one of toil and hardship, especially in the new land, and his salary very small. It is my own, Jose, " she implored, "do notrefuse me. Take it, and think kindly of me, if you can. " Touched by herthought, he promised, and should he never need to use it, he would leaveit to the Church. Then, as she bowed her head, in broken accents, he called down Heaven's richest blessing on his loved one. Weepingbitterly, Dolores arose and left the confessional. As soon as he hadrecovered from his agitation, Jose left his seat, and entering the sideof the confessional where Dolores had knelt, he saw an oblong parcel, wrapped in dark paper, lying on the floor far back in the corner. Hetook it up and carried it away with him. Not for many days after did hehave the calmness to open it. Inside the wrapper was the wooden box wehave already seen, on top of which lay a small, flat key. He unlockedthe box, and with eyes full of tears, saw the glittering rows of goldcoins, and the words traced by Dolores's pen. 

But to-night Father Zalvidea decided to put the box in a safer place. Going to the window, and drawing aside the curtain, he opened it. Listening intently for a moment, and hearing nothing, he returned to thetable, lighted a small dark lantern, extinguished the candle, and takingup the box after closing and locking it, he left the room, and walkedsoftly through the passage out into the patio. 

Aided by the feeble light from the moon, low down on the horizon, hehurried along the cloister to a room back of the church, which had beendeserted and left to itself for many years, and was now almost in ruins. Going into one corner, Father Zalvidea, by the light of his lantern, found a small pick and shovel which, that afternoon, he had left therefor this very purpose, and set to work to dig a hole in which to buryhis treasure. Although the ground was hard, it required only a fewminutes, after the cement floor was broken through, to accomplish this, for the box was small, and to bury it deep down was quite unnecessary. Father Zalvidea placed the box in the hole, covered it with the earthhe had thrown to one side on a large sheet of paper he had brought withhim, and then, carefully fitting together the pieces of cement he hadbroken, he sprinkled over it some of the remaining earth, to hide alltraces of the disturbance--a thing very easy to do, as the cement wasso nearly the color of the clay soil. Leaving the shovel and pick, hewrapped what earth was left in the paper, put it under his arm, took upthe lantern, and wended his way back to his room, congratulating himselfon having hidden the money safely. 

Well would it have been for the Father, had he put his box of gold coinsinto the great, strong, securely padlocked chest standing in thevestry of the church, in which were kept the money and all the valuablearticles--the gold embroidered vestments and the sacred vessels ofsilver belonging to the mission. Father Zalvidea had, indeed, thoughtof it, but he had felt a strong repugnance to placing his own privateproperty among that of the church; so, although much the better way, he had chosen the other. And how could he know there had been a pair ofeyes watching him all the time he was busy in the deserted room? Suchwas the case, however, for a young mestizo had been witness of the wholeproceeding. Juan, the seventeen year old son of a Mexican laborer, whohad married one of the mission Indian women, united in himself thebad qualities of both races, as has so often been the result of suchcrosses. He had grown up idle, indifferent to his parents, vicious andcruel, leading astray the other youths of the mission, among whom he waseasily the master, and causing his parents and Father Zalvidea no end ofanxiety. The Father, in fact, had about made up his mind that Juan mustbe sent away to San Diego, and put under military discipline. To havehim longer at liberty was not to be considered. This night Juan had beenat the home of one of his boon companions, talking over the plans fora fandango to be given within a few days. Coming along leisurely bythe wall of the building forming the east side of the patio, he sawthe faintest glimmer of light shining through the opening of a ruinedwindow. Standing on a stone, which he placed beneath the window, helooked in and saw the Father busily at work in the far corner of theroom. Curiosity took possession of him, and he watched every movementof the worker until he had completed his task, taken up the lantern, and left the room. After waiting a few moments, to make sure he was notcoming back, Juan sprang lightly through the window, and went to thecorner where the Father had been occupied. First looking out into thepatio to see that no one was there, he seized the shovel, and diggingenergetically a minute or two, struck the hard top of the box. Liftingit out he examined it by the moonlight coming in by the door, which hehad left open. The box was heavy, but there was nothing else to indicatewhat were its contents. Juan knew the Father valued it, from the carewith which he had secreted it, and surmised, from its weight, it mightcontain gold. Hastily filling the hole, and making the surface smooth aspossible, in the dim light, he climbed out of the window, taking the boxwith him. Walking swiftly on the road for a half-mile farther, he cameto a little adobe house where he and his parents lived. Passing thehouse, he hurried on to the garden and wheat-field belonging to hisfather, and, reaching the far end, he sat down on the ground and tookthe box in his lap to examine it at his ease. For a moment he hesitated, realizing the magnitude of his crime, but only for a moment. He couldnot resist his curiosity to see the contents of the box; and, too, if itwere gold, as he felt sure it must be, he intended to take it, forJuan had long had a great desire to run away to Mexico or Hawaii; butventuresome as he was, he could not quite bring himself to the pointof carrying it out, for his indolence drew him back at the prospect ofbeing obliged to work his way. 

His hesitation quickly came to an end, and placing the box on theground, he found a sharp stone, and began pounding it with quick, hard blows. Strong as the box was, it could not long withstand suchtreatment, and soon it fell apart, broken at the hinges. With a low cryof surprise, Juan gazed at the glittering coins; then, with feverishfingers, he took up a handful and examined them carefully, for he hadnever seen the Spanish onza, and did not know its value. That it wasgold, however, satisfied him; he would find out its value later, forat the first sight of it, Juan had jumped at the fact that now he was athief, and could not remain at the mission. With lightning speed he madeup his mind to run away, and that very night. Two thousand dollars ingold is a heavy load for one's pocket, but that was the only way Juancould carry it, and he quickly transferred it to his two pockets. Notdaring to go into the house, from fear of waking his parents, he setoff, just as he was, for San Pedro, the nearest seaport, a walk ofnearly fifty miles. But the box--he must not leave that lying on theground in plain sight! He must take it with him until he could find someplace to hide it, or throw it into the sea. He picked it up, and hurriedoff, not noticing the slip of paper, which had fallen out of the boxwhen it was broken open. Walking all night, Juan found himself, atdaybreak, still far from San Pedro, tired out and hungry. But he knew hemust keep on, if he did not want to be overtaken and captured. We shallnot follow him farther; it is more than certain he will be relievedof his gold, when he reaches San Pedro, by some friendly sailor or badcharacter of the settlement; and he will, after all, have to work hisway to Mexico, for it would be out of the question to return to San JuanCapistrano. 

Juan was frequently away for two or three days at a time, and hisnon-appearance the next morning caused no particular remark from hisparents; and not until late in the afternoon of the second day of hisabsence did anything occur to lead them to think he was gone. His fatherhad begun to cut his wheat the day before. This afternoon he was justfinishing the last piece of the field, when he spied something whiteon the ground, almost hidden by the tall grain. Stopping his horse, hepicked it up, wondering, and with some difficulty made out thewriting on it. Where had it come from; to whom did it belong; who wasDolores--it was too much for his slow mind to fathom. But of one thinghe was certain--it must be taken to the Father; he would know if it wasof moment. And then it was he thought of his son and his absence. Hardlyin his own mind did he connect it with the bit of paper; and yet thesuspicion, once aroused, would not be dispelled. Finishing his work asquickly as possible, he returned to his house and told his wife whathe had found, and then spoke of the absence of their son as, possibly, having some connection with it. 

"I will take it to the Father to-morrow, " said his wife, calmly, asbecame her race, but with an undertone of anxiety and sadness. 

Early the next morning Juan's mother wended her way to the mission, andasking to see the Father, was led to his reception-room. He was sittingat a table covered with books and papers, reading from a large foliofilled with the early statistics of the mission, the first few pages ofwhich were written by the sainted Serra's hand. Father Zalvidea lookedup as the Indian woman entered. 

"Good morning, my daughter, " he said. "What do you wish with me?"

The woman responded with a trembling voice, "Father, my husband foundthis in his wheatfield. "

The Father took the paper with negligent curiosity. It was rumpled anddirty, far different from its appearance when in the box, and he didnot recognize it. But as soon as he had smoothed it, and saw thehandwriting, he sprang to his feet, crying:

"Woman, how came you by this? Tell me. Why did you bring it to me? Whereis the box?"

Terrified at the outbreak she had evoked, the Indian fell on her kneesbefore the priest, and exclaimed:

"Father, I know nothing more about it than what I have told you. Myhusband found it yesterday in his field, and gave it to me to bring toyou. That is all, Father. "

The Father composed himself with difficulty, and, after a moment, spokewith his accustomed calmness:

"My daughter, forgive me for speaking so harshly, and doubting yourword, for I know you would not have brought me the paper if you had notcome honestly by it. But I must see your husband at once. "

The priest got his hat, and, accompanied by the woman, started quicklyfor her home. 

Now the woman had said nothing about the suspicions her husband had had, and which he had imparted to her. However unworthy of her love, shewas Juan's mother, and, Indian though she was, and with the inheritedinstincts of the savage, hers was the natural love found in civilizedand savage alike, and she could not bring herself to tell the Fatherwhat she felt must be true. So, silently, the two hastened to her home. Juan's father was in the garden back of the house, weeding his vegetablepatch, As soon as he saw his wife and the priest he came toward them. 

"Pablo, tell me all you know about this paper?" said the Fatherabruptly, without preamble of any kind. 

The man related the fact of his finding it, which was, indeed, all therewas to tell. And then, with hesitation, spoke of Juan's absence. 

The Father started. 

"When did you see him last?" he asked. 

"The day before yesterday, in the afternoon, " replied the man. "He saidhe was going to see Fernando Diaz, who lives on the mission road, twomiles north from here. "

"Did you see him when he came back?" inquired the priest. 

"No, Father, " the man answered. "That is the last time we have seenhim. "

Father Zalvidea asked the man to show him the place where he had foundthe paper, and the two walked to the wheat-field. When they came tothe spot, the Father looked carefully around on the ground, hopingto discover some trace of the box and its contents. Searching in thestubble, he did actually find one of the gold coins, but that was all. The box was too large to remain hidden in the field, and the Fatherknew it must have been carried away. He showed Pablo, who had beenassisting in the search, the coin he had found, and then, as there wasno object in concealment, told him of his loss. 

The man's astonishment at the enormity of his son's offense wasprofound. He was struck dumb for some moments, but realizing, at last, that his son was, in all likelihood, involved, he besought the Father tohave pity on him. 

"Pablo, " said the priest, "have you no idea whither Juan is gone? Haveyou ever heard him say anything to lead you to think he wanted to leavethe mission?"

"No, Father, " he replied; for Juan always had been careful to saynothing of his longing to go to Mexico, as he knew he might be watchedshould he ever carry it out. 

"I know not what to do, " said the priest, "but I shall, at any rate, send messengers to San Diego and San Pedro. He might leave either placein some ship for Mexico or Central America, for he would not dare to goto San Luis Rey or San Gabriel, as he would be discovered and sent back. But I fear it will do no good. "

The two returned to the house, where the woman still waited for them. She saw traces of emotion on the Father's face, and consternationwritten plainly on that of her husband, but, like a true Indian, askedno questions. 

Father Zalvidea commanded the couple to say nothing about the matter, and returned to the mission. As soon as he reached it, he sent offtwo trusty neophytes, on horseback, one to San Diego, the other to SanPedro, with letters to friends in each place, relating the robbery. Butno trace of Juan was found. He had had over two days' start, and by thetime the messenger arrived at San Pedro, he was far out to sea in a shipwhich had sailed the very morning of the discovery of the theft. 

After this cruel interruption, Father Zalvidea returned to his quietlife with a sorrowful heart. He did not regret the loss of the money, so far as he himself was concerned, for he had long destined it for theChurch, as he knew he could retire to some monastery when too old andfeeble for further usefulness; but the desecration of his secret waslike a painful stab. The robbery had the effect, also, of callingforcibly to mind, once again, the life and love of other days--thosehalcyon days of youth, when all was sunshine and hope. During therest of the day the Father was unable to control himself for any workwhatsoever. He paced back and forth the length of his room; walked upand down the cloister surrounding the patio; wandered out around thegarden, and even as far off as the bluff, a mile from the mission, fromwhich could be seen the beach below, white with foam from the inrushingwaves. It was many days before he regained his normal equanimity. 

Father Zalvidea lived at Mission San Juan Capistrano nearly fifteenyears after this episode in his life there. Two years after the robberyhe heard that his loss was known to the mission. Pablo, while under theinfluence of too much aguardiente, had told of it. Father Zalvidea atonce set to work to silence the gossip, and did so effectually, forhe heard nothing more of it while he remained at the mission. But therumor, lived, although repressed, and for years after his departure, searches were made for the money which many believed had never beenstolen, or, if recovered, had been reburied by the Father; for Pablo, babbling in his stupor, had not been careful as to accuracy. In fact, as late as 1888, there were people at San Juan Capistrano who stillbelieved in the buried treasure, and explored the ruins of the mission, digging in various spots for it. Why the Father should have left hismoney buried there (supposing it not to have been stolen), instead oftaking it with him when he removed from the mission, tradition does notstate. 

Note. --Bancroft: History of California, Vol. IV, p. 624, note, givesabout all that is known of these famous onzas of Father Zalvidea. Probably it will never be known definitely what became of them. 

In alluding to the earthquake of 1812, the writer has followed thecommonly received assumption, derived from Bancroft, that it occurredDecember 8, and that this date fell on a Sunday. From later research, itis now believed to have occurred October 8, which was a Thursday. Thisseems more likely than the date given by Bancroft (December 8, 1812, fell on Tuesday), for he himself says forty of the attendants at masswere killed, the officiating priest and six others being all that weresaved: he does not mention the wounded, if any. This would be far toosmall a number for a Sunday mass attendance. 

La Beata

It was a bright summer morning in the month of June of the year 1798. All was bustle and excitement at the wharf in the harbor of the town ofAcapulco, on the western coast of Mexico, for at noon a ship was to sailaway for the province of Nueva California, in the far north. This wasalways an event to attract the attention of the town, partly from itsinfrequent occurrence, but more especially because, in those days, thisnorthern Mexican province was an almost unknown land to the generalmind. The first expedition to the new country, under the spiritualdirection of the beloved Father Serra, had been sent out nearly thirtyyears before. But so many and conflicting were the tales of warswith the Indian natives, the struggles of the Franciscans to makeand maintain a footing, the hardships endured by all who journeyedthither--sometimes to the point of suffering the pangs of hunger--, and, on the other hand, the marvelous tales of the perfect climate, grandmountain ranges with snowy peaks, fertile soil nearly everywhere, therewas a want of unanimous opinion respecting the northern land. Whenever, therefore, from time to time, a ship was sent from the mother country toher struggling colony, a great interest was always displayed. Each shipwould be filled with agricultural produce of all kinds, implements oflabor, clothing of every sort, including vestments and adornings for themission churches, as well as laborers and soldiers, together, sometimes, with a few priests to swell the number already in the new field. Theship preparing for her voyage this pleasant June morning was the centreof all such busy scenes witnessed many times before, but which neverseemed to lose their interest for the inhabitants of the town. 

But this particular occasion was one of more than usual interest to thepeople assembled by the water to watch the preparations for departure. An hour before the time set for sailing, a procession was seen comingslowly down the main street of the town, heading for the ship. It was astrange, silent, pathetic little company. At the head were two sistersof charity, following them a score of young children, evenly dividedas to sex, and all under ten years of age. They were dressed with theutmost simplicity, almost severity, although with extreme neatness. Hardly a word was spoken among them, as they came along, but their eyeswere busy glancing from one side to the other, noting everythingabout them, and, in particular, the ship which was evidently theirdestination. 

This little procession was the cause of the unusual interest shown inthe sailing of the ship. The children were on their way from MexicoCity to the new country, where they were to find homes among the peoplesettled there; for they were foundlings, with no one but the Church tolook to for aid in their helplessness. The Church had responded nobly, and had cared for these poor little waifs from infancy, and until theywere large enough to be sent to their new home. 

"Caramba!" exclaimed a by-stander to his companion. "What will become ofthe pobrecitos in that heathen country? I grow cold to think of it, " headded with a shiver. 

"Basta, Juan!" said his friend. "What do you know about it? Were it notfor my wife and little one, I would go away quickly, and be glad to go. There are Indians here and in Baja California, plenty of them, and whatharm do they do any one?"

"All very well, " replied the other. "You may not believe it. But I haveheard tales of that land which made my flesh creep. Know you not whatthe Indians did to Father Jaime at Mission San Diego? Would you like tohave been there then? I think not. "

"You remember well, " answered his companion. "That was over twenty yearsago. There are many more people there now, and the Indians wouldnot dare do such things again. Besides, these children are going toMonterey, and that is a large town, I have heard. "

The children boarded the ship, and were soon standing by the taffrail, watching the busy scene below, as the men hurried with the last loads ofthe cargo. Presently all was done, the vessel weighed anchor, andslowly making her way out of the harbor, set her course for the distantnorthern country. 

During the three weeks' voyage these children lost much of their shynessat their strange surroundings, made friends with all on board, and had agenerally royal good time--probably the first they had ever had in theirshort lives. Under charge of the sisters of the asylum whence theycame, they had had the best of training, which, although lacking theindividual love of the mother for her own children, was one to influenceand increase their religious instincts, and to make them good, piousCatholic men and women. The children, almost without exception, weredocile and obedient, venerating the sisters in charge, and quickto respond to their slightest word. Among the girls was one to beespecially remarked, from her face and its habitual expression. Indistinguishable from the others in general appearance, it was onlyin glancing at her countenance that one thought to look at her asecond time with close attention. She was not handsome, or even pretty, although not by any means homely; but her face was almost transfiguredby its expression of earnest piety and goodness, remarkable in one soyoung. Quiet and sedate as was her habit, she was ever ready to enterfreely into the fun and play of the other children; but even in the mostabsorbing frolic, if any one became hurt from too much roughness, shewas the first to be on the spot to comfort the suffering one and to easeits pain. 

Apolinaria Lorenzana (for so the child had been named by her guardians)had become the object of the love of the entire asylum, and of thesisters in charge of it, in particular. She was looked up to withrespect, almost adoration, for her piety and devotion to all religiousobservances; and the sisters never tired of whispering to each other, prophesying what good works she would do during her life, led and taughtby the Virgin as she most certainly was. The parting from her was a soreone to the sisters, more so than to Apolinaria herself, great as was heraffection for them; but, in spite of her youth, she was already filledwith her work in the new land to which she was going; and she was almostthe only one of the little group of children to look forward with joy tothe new life. 

With fair winds, and under bright skies, the ship sped on her course, and, at the end of three weeks, cast anchor in the bay before the townof Monterey and opposite the presidio. Here the scenes enacted at theirdeparture from Acapulco, were repeated, with even greater animation, although the number of people was pitifully small. It was touching tosee the eagerness with which they welcomed the newcomers, strangersthough they were; the passion with which they seized on letters fromfriends in Mexico, as soon as they were distributed; the interest shownin the news, extorted from each of the passengers, as they in turn werequestioned, of everything which had occurred in their old home andin Spain, as well as in the rest of the world. Such was the hungermanifested by these home-sick persons! The children aroused quite asmuch interest here as they had on their departure, and with more reason, for this was to be their future home. Boys and girls stood on the deck, and noted everything going on. Such a little place Monterey seemed tothese young people fresh from Mexico City--some dozen houses scatteredhere and there, a church, the Governor's house and the presidio, allof adobe, and all small and insignificant. But the little town made apretty sight in the warm sunshine, with the bay and ocean in front, andthe hills, forest-clad, behind. 

During the height of the excitement incident to unloading, GovernorBorica was seen to approach, accompanied by half a dozen soldiers fromthe presidio, and a Franciscan priest, who was come from the mission, six miles distant, to take charge of the little band of children, until they should be placed in permanent homes. Boarding the ship, theGovernor and the Father made their way to the group, and greeted the twosisters, both of whom had been acquainted with the Governor beforehe left Mexico. The children, instructed by the sisters, made a deepobeisance to the Governor, and kneeled before the Father, as he spoketo each in turn. A few minutes later all left the ship, and the priest, with the sister and children, set out, on foot, for the mission. The waywas long, but no one thought of fatigue; for it lay, for the most part, along the edge of the shore, with the ocean in full sight, the wavesdashing on to the rocks strewn thickly here and there, while now andthen the scene was varied with clusters of cypress trees growing infantastic shapes. It was past noon when they reached the mission, asmall establishment, having, at this time, about eight hundred Indians, under the charge of the Father and his assistants. 

The children, however, did not remain here long. During the next twoweeks homes were found for them, some among the families at Monterey, some were sent across the bay to Mission Santa Cruz, and some as far asMission Santa Clara; so that, by the end of that time, not one was leftat Mission San Carlos, the two sisters alone continuing there to givetheir aid in all manner of work looking toward the betterment of theIndians. 

Among the children finding homes in Monterey was Apolinaria. Pleasedwith her appearance, when he saw her at the disembarkation, Don RaimundoCarrillo, a well-known and powerful personage in the new country, decided to take her into his own family, consisting of himself, hiswife and three small children. This was a piece of rare good fortunefor Apolinaria, for Senor Carrillo was noted for his kind heart to allinferiors; and with this family she found a home than which none couldhave been happier in the whole colony. Apolinaria was not adopted by theCarrillos--she filled, in some measure, the place of a servant, while, at the same time, she was regarded as one of the family in all domesticrelations, and became a companion, in many respects, to SenoraCarrillo, who was an invalid. And beyond all this, Apolinaria was underthe religious charge of the mission fathers, as were all the foundlingsbrought to the province. The fathers not only instructed and admonishedthem in the Catholic faith, but kept informed as to the temporal welfareof their every-day life. 

And now began a time of happiness for Apolinaria; busy all day, sometimes at the roughest toil, she worked with her whole heart, fullof joy because she was busy, and was doing something for the good peoplewith whom she had found a home. But more than this: the change from herold shelter in the asylum in the great city to a life in the sweet, wildnew country, beautiful with all that was loveliest in nature, was oneto make a character like Apolinaria expand and grow into a roundedsimplicity of soul and spirit. Father Pujol had heard of Apolinaria'spiety on her coming to Monterey, having a chance, also, of observing itduring her short stay at the mission; and he watched over her with morethan usual interest, instructing her mentally, as occasion offered, in addition to fostering the religious side of her nature. Apolinariaattended the school in the town until she was thirteen years old, andacquired the elements of an education, as much as she could possiblyhave any occasion to use in after years in the country whither she wascome for life. 

As Apolinaria grew older, and after she had ceased going to school, shefound, even with her accustomed duties in Don Raimundo's home, that shehad much unoccupied time; and with her religious fervor she thought longon the matter, trying to find in what way she could more completely fillthe place she believed the Holy Virgin had destined for her. But invain did she seek for this object; and at length arose slowly in her, becoming more and more fixed as she dwelt on it, the thought that maybeshe had been mistaken in considering that a life in Nueva California wasmeant for her; and with the thought was awakened the longing to returnto Mexico and become a nun. This was during her fifteenth year. A younggirl with her religious habit of mind would, naturally, turn to theconvent, and regard a life spent in it as the worthiest, thereforethe most desirable, to be found in this sinful world; and Apolinaria, notwithstanding her strength of character, soon became fascinated withthe prospect. She thought long and seriously before saying a word to anyone; for much as she now wished it, she knew it would be painful both toherself and to the good Carrillos, and she dreaded to disclose her plan. But at last, believing she had definitely decided that it concerned thefuture welfare of her soul, she betook herself to her spiritual adviser, Father Pujol, and laid her thought before him. 

Now Father Pujol was a man--one of many in this imperfect world--who hadnot found his proper place in life. His father had intended to take him, as a partner, into business, toward which he had a natural leaning, sosoon as he was of sufficient age; but Senor Pujol suffered reverseswhich swept away his modest fortune, and left his family destitute. Rather than receive aid from his uncle, and waiving his claim in favorof his younger brother, this son, although with reluctance, decided toenter the priesthood, for he was a singularly religious young man. ButFather Pujol, in his capacity as priest, combined, in a marked degree, the wisdom of the serpent with the harmlessness of the dove. He had adeeply rooted aversion to the custom of women sequestering themselvesfrom the world behind the walls of a convent; and it had been his habit, whenever opportunity offered, to dissuade any who, by so doing, mightleave a void in the world. Indeed, he had been so zealous in one or twocases that the suspicions of his fellow-brethren had been aroused, and, eventually, he was selected to make one of a company of Franciscansto the new province. Therefore, on hearing for the first time whatApolinaria meditated doing, he felt almost angry with her, foolish andunreasonable though he knew he was. 

"My blessed child!" he exclaimed, "what has made you think of such athing?"

"I know not, Father, " replied Apolinaria, "but it seemed to have beenput into my mind by the saints in Heaven that that was what I should do;and I believe that must be what I was destined for when I was found bythe dear sisters, forsaken and starving, and was taken to the asylum. Did not they save my life that I might glorify God and the BlessedVirgin the rest of my days?"

"Listen, Apolinaria, " replied the Father solemnly. "I know well thestate of your mind concerning this question. I have no word of blameto give you, and I am sure that the life you would pass in the conventwould be acceptable to God; one, indeed, of good work done for others, in so far as your limited sphere of action would permit. But, my dearchild, consider carefully before you decide to take this step, whetherit may not be a step backward in your progress toward a heavenly home. Here you are, a member of a leading family in Nueva California, in themidst of duties which you can, and do, discharge faithfully, and whichwould not be done so well by any one else, should you give them up. Think of the help and comfort you are to Senora Carrillo, in her poorhealth, with three children, who would be a sad burden to her withoutyou. Look at the place you fill in the household, where you are, intruth, the housekeeper. Is not your life full of good work? What morecould you find in a convent? I know, my daughter, you wish for the lifeof devotion to be found there, and that you look on it as a life ofrapture and uplifting. That is all very well for many poor womenwho have no especial sphere of usefulness to fill in the world; but, Apolinaria, I should deeply mourn the day that saw you become one ofthem. Do not think I am decrying the convent--far be from me such athing! But I believe, I know, God never intended that his creaturesshould isolate themselves in any such way from the duties among which Hehad placed them. "

The Father had risen to his feet as he uttered the last sentence, and, with some agitation, took a few steps back and forth in the room. He wasan earnest, deep-souled man, eager and passionate, almost to the pointof inspiration, when aroused from his usual reserved manner. Apolinariawas greatly beloved by him, and it was with genuine pain that he hadheard her wish. 

"Apolinaria, " he said at last, after a few moments of silence on thepart of both, "hija mia, have I made you see this matter clearly? Cannot you trust me to decide this weighty question for you? Is your heartso set on the quiet life of prayer, cut off from so much of the work, without which, Saint James tells us, faith is dead? Do not decide now, "he added, as Apolinaria made an uncertain attempt to speak, "take plentyof time, daughter; think it over during the next week, and then come tosee me again and let me know. "

"I thank you, Father, and I shall consider what you have said to me. Will you pray for me that I may be guided aright?"

"Surely, my daughter, " replied the Father, and laying his hands on herhead as Apolinaria knelt before him, continued in slow, measured tones:"May the Mother of God help you to choose that which will ever be mostpleasing and acceptable to her Son, our Lord Jesus Christ. "

"Amen, " whispered Apolinaria. 

During the next few days Apolinaria thought of Father Pujol's words. Itwas a great disappointment to her to give up her long-cherished plan;but from the moment of leaving the Father she knew in her heart what theoutcome would be. Yet it cost her a pang of regret as she thought of thequiet walls in Mexico which she used to look upon with a hush of awe, and dream of the lives of peace and holiness passed behind them. But shewas not one to grieve long over what cost some tears to resign, and soonwas, heart and soul, absorbed once more in whatever her hand found todo. Father Pujol having suggested the plan to her, she now, for thefirst time, took up the study of nursing at the mission hospital, instructed by the two sisters who had come with her and the otherchildren some years before, and who had remained at the mission. Therewere always many patients among the neophytes, and here Apolinaria founda work ready to her hand, which soon claimed all the time she could giveto it. This was an intense happiness to her, and the Father saw, withthe utmost satisfaction, that his remedy was a good one. 

Not long after this Senor Carrillo was called to Santa Barbara to takecommand of the presidio, and knowing he should be kept there for manymonths, perhaps years, he decided to move his family to this new placeof activity, and make it his future home. Apolinaria alone, of allthe household, was averse to the change. She had just given herselfunreservedly to her work with calm, patient enthusiasm, that left noroom for regretful thought for what she had once longed to do; she couldnot bear the idea of parting from Father Pujol, who had been, indeed, afather to her, and who had had so much influence in marking out her lifework. It was with tears she said the last bitter "adios" to him, on theeve of the departure; for in those days and in that country, there couldbe no probability that she would ever see him again, less likely in thiscase, as Father Pujol was far on life's decline. But even Apolinaria'ssorrow at leaving Monterey could not destroy the interest and pleasurefelt on arriving at Santa Barbara, one of the most beautiful places inthe province, and at that time much larger than Monterey. As the shipcame into the roadstead which served as a harbor, the town lay spreadout before them: in the foreground, straggling along the beach and forsome distance back, were the adobe houses of the inhabitants, aboutone hundred in number, most of them glittering white in the brilliantsunlight; among them, somewhat distant from the shore, was the huge, low building of the presidio, frowning out over the rest of the scene;beyond the houses, and nearly two miles from the water, was the mission, a large group of buildings, from the midst of which rose the whitetwo-towered Moorish church. Back of all was the long range of mountains, stretching off far into the north, in color a wonderful changing goldenpink, streaked with palest blue-grey in the shadows. It was a perfectpicture of peace, the sole hostile point in the whole being thepresidio, which served but to accentuate the quiet beauty of the rest. 

Even when the passengers were landed from the ship, the quiet of thetown was not disturbed in any great degree. It was only when a vesselfrom Mexico, arrived, when the Governor of the province visited them, or when news of an Indian uprising was brought, that the town awoke fromits almost lethargic calm. All this Apolinaria found out later. Today, however, the undisturbed quiet of the place suited her best, and shewould not have had it otherwise, surprised as she was at first to findit thus, so different from the bustle attending any event, even theslightest, occurring at Monterey. Don Raimundo and his family weredomiciled in the home of Captain Jose de la Guerra, a friend of his, who met him at the landing to render all the assistance in his power. The captain's house was a large one, and Don Raimundo was led to thisplan on account of the growing infirmity of his wife. 

It did not require a long while for a quiet soul like Apolinaria to takeup once more in the new home the broken threads of her life; and beforeshe had been there many days, she had found more than enough to employall her time. At Monterey Apolinaria had been in part servant, inpart mistress of the household, discharging the duties of her somewhatanomalous position. In Santa Barbara, on the contrary, her services asdomestic and housekeeper were dispensed with, and she was at liberty togive her whole time and attention to the occupation which she hadbut just begun to pursue at Monterey. She offered her services tothe priests at the mission as a nurse for the sick neophytes in thehospital. The winter before had been a severe one for the health ofthe Indian community, and there had been an unusual number of casesof smallpox--the most common disease with which they were afflicted. Capable nurses were hard to find, and the fathers gladly acceptedApolinaria's offer. Once her qualities becoming known and appreciated, she was in almost constant demand from one end of the town to the other, for she displayed a skill in the care of the sick that came from bornaptitude. 

Here Apolinaria remained for several years, engrossed in her work whichhad now taken complete possession of her. As she became better known, she had calls from many high caste Spanish residents who desired herservices, and not only those living in Santa Barbara, but in near-bytowns--San Buenaventura, Santa Inez, and as far as Los Angeles; and herfame reached, at last, the whole length of the chain of settlementsin the province, from San Diego to San Francisco, for she was the soleperson in that part of the country who undertook the office of what isnow filled by the trained nurse. After a time, Apolinaria, finding therewas room for many more like herself, gathered a few young women into aclass whom she taught what she knew in regard to nursing the sick, andupon whom she called for such assistance as they were able to give. 

One morning a mission neophyte came to her with a message from FatherAmestoy, that he desired to see her as soon as she could come to him. Wondering a little at the seeming urgency of the request, she took herway to the mission at the end of her morning's visit to the hospital. She met the Father walking slowly up and down in front of the monastery, every now and then looking off down the road with anxious impatience. Assoon as he saw Apolinaria approaching, he hurried to meet her. 

"My child, " he exclaimed, "you are come at last! I have been watchingfor you the whole morning. "

"I could not come before, Father, " she replied. "Did you want me atonce?"

"Yes, Apolinaria, " the Father answered. "Late last night a messengercame from San Diego with a letter from Father Barona, imploring us tosend you down there. They are in great trouble. The smallpox is raging;so many neophytes are ill that help is needed to care for them. Thefathers are worn out with watching and tending the dying, and buryingthe dead, and all the Spaniards are too occupied with their own sick tobe of much assistance. They want you to come. Will you go, Apolinaria?"

"Most assuredly, Father, " Apolinaria replied promptly. "I shall be readyto start to-morrow at daybreak. I cannot leave sooner for I mustgive last directions to my pupils. But how shall I go? Have you madearrangements for me?"

"You can return with the messenger. I shall give him full instructions. With hard riding you can reach there in three days. Do you think youcan stand it? I would not ask it did not they need you so badly--just assoon as you can get there. "

"Do not think of me, Father. I shall not fail. "

After a few more words Apolinaria left the mission, and returning tothe town, made preparations for her absence, which bade fair to be aprolonged one. Bitter regrets were felt and expressed by the people, some going so far as to mutter against the priest for sending her, for"does not Apolinaria belong to us, and why should we, how can we, spareher to go so far away for a lot of sick Indians?"

The next morning, an hour before the sun was up, Father Amestoy and themessenger, each with a horse from which they had dismounted, stood atApolinaria's door. In a moment Apolinaria came out of the little adobehouse which had been her abode since leaving the Carrillos, bearing asmall bundle in her arms. Kneeling before the Father, he gave her hisblessing, and then asked her abruptly if she was ready to start. 

"Yes, Father, I am quite prepared. "

"Then you must be off at once, " he replied. "I have given the messengerinstructions for your journey. You have swift horses. If possible, getto San Fernando to-night; that is the longest day's ride you will have, but if too much for you, or if you be delayed on the way, stop at somerancho this side for the night. In that case your ride to-morrow will belonger, for you ought to get to Mission San Juan by tomorrow night; fromthere to San Diego is a short distance compared with the others. Youwill change horses at San Buenaventura, and at the ranchos on the wayfrom there to San Fernando. Felipe knows where to stop for them. He hasletters also for the padres at the missions, and will see to everything. And now, my daughter, may the saints protect you and keep you, and bringyou back once more to your friends here, when you shall be no longerneeded at San Diego. "

When the Father had ceased speaking, he assisted Apolinaria to mount herhorse, and with a last "adios" she made off, preceded by the messenger, who had taken her bundle and fastened it to his saddle. The priestwatched them as they hurried away in a cloud of dust, and then, breathing a blessing for Apolinaria, returned to the mission. 

It was a glorious June morning. The air was fresh and crisp; the waterwas just taking on a tinge of yellow from the light of the yet unrisensun, and the sky above was of the intensest blue. The road, for thefirst twenty miles, lay along the shore, now on the beach itself, thewater not seldom lapping the horses' feet, now on the mesa above. Opento all impressions of the beautiful in nature as was Apolinaria, she hadlittle time, or, indeed, inclination, for its indulgence this morning, for the messenger had set the pace at a hard gallop, and her attentionwas taken up with the riding. She was a good horsewoman, and found nodifficulty in keeping up with Felipe, although, whenever they came toa bit of bad road, he slackened his pace a little. The sun was not twohours high when they reached San Buenaventura, where they were receivedby the fathers, given fresh steeds, and were soon on their way again. With the exchange of horses they kept up their speed, and as the hourswent by, the riders saw mile after mile left behind. Whenever theystopped for horses at the ranchos lying on the road, they were welcomedby all, and to Apolinaria was shown the greatest deference, andeverything was done to make her long ride as little fatiguing aspossible, for her fame was known to all, as well as the reason for herpresent journey. Thus the day passed. Toward noon Apolinaria beganto feel the effects of her rapid flight, but she had no thought ofstopping, for she was determined to reach San Fernando that night. Slowly the day wore by, and the miles slipped behind them; but the sunwas set, and night was over them before they reached San Fernando. Twomiles before arriving, they met a horseman who had been sent out on theroad to meet them, in case, as the padres hoped, Apolinaria shouldcome that night. At last they reached the mission, where Apolinaria waswelcomed warmly. But she was too exhausted to do more than eat a little, drink a cup of chocolate, and then retire for the night, which shepassed in a heavy, dreamless sleep. 

The next morning she was up with the first faint grey of dawn, althoughshe was so stiff and lame that every movement caused her agony; but thiswore off gradually as soon as she set out once more after breakfast withthe fathers. We shall not follow her journey in detail. The second daywas easier as she had only seventy-five miles to cover to reach San JuanCapistrano. At Capistrano she found the first traces of the epidemic, afew of the Indians being ill with the smallpox. At Mission San Luis Reythere were a much larger number, and at all of the settlements in theregion were many patients, but only at the southernmost mission were thepeople in great straits. In the afternoon of the third day Apolinariaarrived at her destination, tired out, but happy to be, at last, whereshe was so much needed. Here she found a scene of desolation: more thanhalf of the neophyte population down with the fell disease; the twofathers used up with the care of their especial work; the few Mexicanwomen available for nurses without a head to take charge of affairs atthe hospital. Apolinaria, forgetting her fatigue from the long, hardride, set to work at once where she was most needed, in the hospital;and with her skill and experience she, in a few days, wrought awonderful change. It was a simple matter, after all, and the fathershad acted wisely in sending for her, as she supplied what was lacking--ahead; and after she had fitted herself into her proper place, everythingwent on smoothly, and Apolinaria and her assistants were able to copewith the plague successfully. 

One morning, while it was still at its height, Apolinaria, on making hervisit for the day to the hospital, found a new patient. He was a soldierfrom the presidio, six miles away, who had developed symptoms of thedisease, and had been dismissed and sent to the mission hospital, whilehe was yet able to bear the journey; a handsome young man, hardly morethan a youth, with all the fire, vivacity and pride of the Spaniard, tempered in his case with a touch of sadness, lending an indefinablecharm to his countenance. It was an attractive face, and so Apolinariafound it; but with a second glance at the young solder, she had anuneasy feeling that she had seen him before. She had met so few peoplein her life, that it was not difficult for her to remember the youth asone of her young companions from the asylum in Mexico, who had come withher to Nueva California nearly fifteen years before. But if she was alittle slow in placing the stranger in her memory, he, on the contrary, as soon as his eyes rested on her, showed, by the lighting up of hiscountenance, that he already knew and recognized her. As she approachedhe held out his hand, crying eagerly:

"Apolinaria, tu me recuerdas (You remember me)?"

"Surely, Pedro, how could I forget one of those who were so large a partof my life in the old days? But little did I expect to see you here, andit grieves me sorely to find you ill. "

"That is a little thing, Apolinaria, after many of the hardships I havebeen through since we came to this country. But I shall not talkof that. It is a hard land for all who come. Tell me of yourself, Apolinaria. Have you found many trials? But I think you can have nonenow, for though you work hard, you must be very happy with it all. Yousee I have heard much about you, and the good you have done in theselast years. "

"Another time maybe, Pedro, " Apolinaria replied, "but you are here toget well, and I cannot stop now to talk. I must make my rounds. I shallsee you again, for I come here every day. "

And Apolinaria left him hastily to visit another room of the hospital. His gaze followed her until she was out of sight; then, slowly closinghis eyes, he leaned back in his chair. 

The next day he was too ill to leave his bed. His attack was not severe, but the disease seemed to leave him without strength to recover, andmany days passed before he began to improve. During all the time, Apolinaria visited him once or twice every day, and it was not longbefore Pedro learned to know her hours for the hospital, and to watchand wait for her coming. If, for any reason, she was delayed in herdaily visit to him, he fretted nervously until she appeared. Now this, to one in his condition, is dangerous, but how could poor, simple Pedroknow it? So he gave himself to his one happiness of the moment, withoutsuspicion of whither it was leading him. The nurses in the hospital soonnoticed his interest in Apolinaria, but mistook the direction it wastaking. 

"How can I help loving her?" he said, in response to some remark made tohim. "Saw you ever any one so beautiful as she? I could pray to her as Ido to the Holy Virgin, for I think she is as good. She is una beata, isshe not?"

And those who heard what he said were of one mind on this point, and thetitle thus given to Apolinaria by the man who loved her, was, ere long, the one by which she became known to all--La Beata(1). 

But before Pedro had entirely recovered from his illness, he realizedthe nature of his fondness for Apolinaria. Dismayed and perplexed, heknew not what to do, for, to tell his love for her seemed to his simpleeyes an impertinence. That he should dare to love one so immeasurablyabove him one in whom earthly love was merged in her love for God andher fellowmen! No, he must go back to his old life at the presidio, justas soon as he was able, and leave her with his love unsaid. 

But love sometimes is stronger than will, and so it proved in Pedro'scase. He determined to leave the mission the next day, without a wordto any one, and this last evening he had wandered out into the oliveorchard near the church. It was the close of a hot summer day, towardthe end of June; the sun was just set in the glowing western sky, andall nature seemed to take a breath of relief in the cool evening air. Pedro had been there only a few moments when Apolinaria appeared, approaching from the river beyond the orchard, where she had been to seesome of her patients. Pedro, undecided whether to stay quiet and risk alast meeting with her, or, as prudence whispered, to flee, hesitated toolong, and she was close to him before he awoke from his indecision; Shedid not see him, in the fast gathering dusk, until close to the spotwhere he was standing. 

"You here, Pedro!" she exclaimed. "But it is not well to be out at thistime of the day. Don't you know you are doing wrong? I am astonished tosee you so careless, " she added, smiling. 

It was the first time Pedro had seen her smile in any but a grave, quietway. Now, accompanied as it was with the half-playful, half-deprecatingmanner in which she uttered her chiding, it proved too much for him. 

"Dona, " he said, "I am going away to-morrow. I have struggled hard toleave here without showing you my heart, and I should have done so hadnot you come by this way to-night. Oh, why are you so far above me, thatI must think of you as one belonging to Heaven rather than earth? Whyare you so good and beautiful? For know, Dona, I love you, I love you, "and Pedro poured out his confession of love in a swift rushing stream ofwords. 

Amazed at such vehemence in one who had always until now shown himselfthe quietest of mortals, Apolinaria listened, as in a dream, hardlycomprehending the full significance of what she heard. At last, with astart, she gave a slight shiver, and interrupted Pedro in the midst ofhis impassioned speech. 

"Pedro, " she said gently and quietly, "I am sorry you have told me this, more sorry you should have allowed such a feeling toward me to take rootand grow up in you, for I am sure, my friend, you will see that I couldnot entertain any such change in my life as is implied in your words. Once, when I was younger than I am now, and before I had taken up myspecial work, I may have had dreams of a home and love as you are nowexperiencing; but it was only for a short time, for, I thought, 'whowould choose a poor outcast foundling for a wife?' I will tell you how Icame to take up the work I have been doing these years;" and Apolinariarelated her youthful desire to enter a convent, and how she was led togive herself to her present active work. This she, did, partly becauseshe felt it was only just to Pedro, partly because she wished to leadhim away from again bringing up the subject of his love. 

Pedro listened absently to her story. The fire had died out of his heartwith the uttering of his confession, for he knew, even before he began, how hopeless it all was. How could such an one as Apolinaria, engrossedand absorbed in her work, but raised far, above this life and itspassions, think of so poor and humble a being? He had been overpoweredwith the intensity of his emotion, and, his resolution broken, he hadhurried on, knowing, poor fool that he was, the hopelessness and follyof it. Like a sudden, severe storm, coming after a day of intense, sultry heat, leaving the air refreshed, and the birds singingmelodiously their evening hymns, so it was with Pedro. After his wildoutburst, he was once more the quiet, reserved young man he hadshown himself to be the same, yet with a difference, for his love forApolinaria had an effect on him that he felt all his life. She becameto him an example which he, followed willingly and joyfully, on theirjourney toward the life beyond. 

When Apolinaria concluded her tale, a silence of some minutes fellupon the two, broken by the plaintive cry of an owl as it flew softlyoverhead toward the church. At last Apolinaria awoke from the reveryinto which she had fallen, and speaking brightly and cheerfully, butwith a tender accent, said:

"You must go in, Pedro, and I have a sick woman to visit before I finishmy day's work. I shall not see you again, amigo mio, but I shall notforget you, believe me. Live a good life and be happy. "

And saying this, she held out her hand. Pedro bent low and kissed itreverently, without a word. Then, after one long, steady look into herface, he turned abruptly, and walked slowly through the orchard and backto the mission. The next morning he was gone. 

Apolinaria continued with her nursing at San Diego for some weekslonger, until the disease had done its worst, and then returned to SantaBarbara. But after this she never was allowed to remain there for longat a time. From San Diego to San Luis Obispo, and beyond, she was indemand; and whenever a wish for her assistance was sent to her, shealways responded. Not infrequently, more than one mission would imploreher presence. Then she would visit the one most in distress, and sendsome of her pupils to the others. Thus she passed her days in good worktoward her fellowmen, finding her reward in the blessing of God whichcrowned her life. And ever after her first visit to San Diego, she wascalled by the name which Pedro, in his love, had bestowed upon her--LaBeata. 

(1) Literally, the blessed one; a woman who gives herself to works ofcharity. 

Juana

The overland mail-train from San Francisco, on the way to New Orleans, came to a stop for a minute or two at the little old town of SanGabriel, ten miles east of Los Angeles. It was a hot July afternoon, inthe year 1890; the car windows were open, and the passengers were gazingout listlessly at the few signs of animation about the station and town. San Gabriel is a sleepy old place, with little to interest the ordinaryperson. A traveler, passing through it, sees nothing to attract hisnotice as the train pauses at the station, and he finds his gazewandering off to the north, where it meets the lofty San GabrielMountains, a long line of blue-grey, shimmering in the heat of theplains. There is much beautiful scenery around San Gabriel, andwonderful canyons among these mountains. But there is one object ofinterest in the town we must not forget to mention--the old missionchurch, which the traveler on the train may see standing near the track, a half-mile before coming to the station. It is a fine old structure, planted firmly and solidly on the ground, and looking as though it mightstand another century, without showing more marks of age than it doesnow after having closed its first one hundred years. This is an objectin which every passer-by, even the most indifferent, finds an interest. 

The engine panted, the passengers gazed absently at the men exchangingthe bags of mail. All at once a sound of singing was heard in thedistance. It was a woman's voice, old and quavering, and the song wasa weird, almost unearthly, chant or dirge in a minor key. Slowly thesinger approached the station, and reaching it, mounted the steps of theplatform and seated herself on a bench, keeping on, without pause, hermonotonous singing. The woman was a Mexican, very poorly dressed, andlooked to be all of ninety years of age. This aroused in some slightdegree the interest of the passengers. 

"Who is that old woman?" asked one, of a brakeman who stood by hiswindow. 

"Oh, " laughed the man, "that is old Jane. She is here nearly every day, when the train comes in. "

"What is the matter with her? Is she crazy?" asked the traveler. 

"Yes, " answered the brakeman. 

There was no time for more. The conductor called "all aboard, " and thetrain moved slowly away, leaving the old woman still intoning her chant. 

The year 1824 opened with a feeling of distrust and uneasiness affectingall the missions of Nueva California, from San Juan Capistrano northwardto Monterey. The fathers had held communication with each other manytimes regarding the Indians in their charge, and it was confessed by allthat trouble from them was to be feared. At the same time nothing ofany tangible import had occurred to lead the mission fathers to thisconclusion. A few insubordinate individuals among the neophytes had beena little more insubordinate than usual; several had run away from SantaInez and Purezima to their old haunts and companions in the mountains;some indications of a revival of the superstitious religious customsof the Indians had been discovered; once, at San Luis Obispo, among theneophytes living at some distance from the mission, a dozen men had beenfound, one night, by a Mexican servant of the fathers, preparing somepoison with which to tip the points of their arrows. This last wasominous, and carried more weight than all the other signs of troublebrewing, and roused the fathers to some activity; for the neophytes, at that late day, in mission history, were not allowed to envenom theirarrows without the express sanction of the fathers. But nothing couldbe learned from the disobedient Indians when they were questioned. Theymaintained that they were preparing for the hunting and killing of somelarge and fierce bears which had been seen in the neighborhood, andwhich had destroyed some of their cattle. They were permitted to keepthe arrows, with a reprimand, and a strict watch on their movements washeld for many days. Nothing definite could be discovered, however, andthe fathers were forced to wait, with anxiety and added watchfulness, for whatever was to come. 

There had been many false alarms, ever since the first settlement ofthe country, and many slight uprisings of the Indians, who saw, withdisfavor, their land taken from them, and themselves obliged to servealmost as slaves, at the missions. They were nearly always well-treated, and, in fact, were usually tractable, and even more than satisfied withtheir lot; but now and then they would be roused by some of the fiercerspirits among them to struggle against this slavery. At such times, theinjury they could, and did, inflict on the missions was great, but theyhad always been subdued and forced back to their state of servitude. Yetthe fathers had ever with them this condition of anxiety, rendered allthe greater as the military force in the country was very small, andusually unavailable at the moment when needed, owing to the distancebetween their barracks and the larger number of the missions. 

Not quite three miles from Mission San Gabriel, toward the mountains inthe north, stood a little adobe house, the home of a young Mexican, one of the men belonging to the mission, with his wife and one year oldchild. Diego Borja, this was the man's name, had been connected with themission ever since he was a boy, serving in various occupations, first, as altar boy, then as occasion required, as messenger and servant tothe Father, carpenter, for he was a skilled artisan, and overseer ofthe planting and gathering of the crops. He had even been trusted by theFather with commercial negotiations with merchants at San Pedro and LosAngeles, selling to them hides, which were a valuable source of wealthto the mission, and wine, famous for its fine quality. He was, infact, a general utility man, on whom, on account of his reliability andversatile qualities, the Father depended greatly. Father Zalvidea, thesenior priest at San Gabriel, had reason to congratulate himself onhaving Diego at his command, for not often is such an one found amongthe poorer and laboring class of Mexicans, combining the power andability to serve in manifold ways, with a love of work for its own sakeas well as for the reward it brings--very different from the generalslowness and laziness of this class. 

Two years before this little tale opens, Diego had become attached to ayoung girl living at the mission. Juana was an orphan, and had come toNueva California from the same institution in Mexico which, many yearsbefore, had sent "La Beata, " well known and loved by every one inthe country. Juana had none of the characteristics of the celebratedApolinaria, excepting only her piety, for she was a simple youngwoman, doing what was given her to do with a devout, unquestioningthankfulness, happy that she was able to work for those who hadbefriended her. She had been at San Gabriel for some years, and was theteacher of the Indian girls' school. It was the most natural thing tooccur in the little world at San Gabriel, that Diego and Juana should bedrawn to each other, for neither had any relatives at the mission, andit happened that there were no other Mexicans of their own age here atthis time. It was with much hesitation that Diego had told the Father ofhis love, for the priest, although one of the kindest of men, dislikedchange of any sort, were it the most trivial, a condition due as much totemperament as to age, although the Father was now past the meridian oflife. Diego's great desire was to have a home for himself and his wifeaway from the mission, for he was tired of the communal life which hehad lived for twenty years. Nothing but the love and respect he had forFather Zalvidea, and the knowledge that he was, in a measure, necessaryto him, had kept him from making the change long before. But at lasthe was resolved to hazard the matter, and with his mind made up, hebroached the subject one evening, after having received the priest'sorders for the following day. 

The Father's surprise was great, for, somewhat strangely, the thoughtthat the relations between himself and Diego might be altered or brokenhad never occurred to him; yet not so strangely, after all, for afterhaving had his services for nearly twenty years, what more naturalthan his coming to regard the existing arrangement to be impossibleof change? Yet why should Diego's marriage make any difference in thepresent condition of things? Married or single, would not Diego andJuana continue to live at the mission? And so, somewhat to Diego'ssurprise, the Father offered no remonstrance to his wish. 

But when Diego asked him if he might have a piece of the mission landwhere he could build a house, and make his home, the Father exclaimed:

"My son, are you dissatisfied with your life here? Must you leave me, and give up all your old occupations at the mission? Cannot you andJuan! a be contented here? What shall I do without you, for you aremy right hand man, and there is no one here I could trust to take yourplace?"

"Father, " replied Diego, "I should be sorry to feel obliged to give updoing all in my power for you and the mission; nor would I. I do notwish to go far. The land I want is less than three miles away, and Icould be here at your command almost as much of the time as now. Butif it be wrong to desire a place of my own, which I can plant andcultivate, and make of it a home, I will not ask it. "

"No, Diego, " answered the Father, "it is not wrong to wish for such athing, nor can I say you nay. I am no longer young, although, I thankGod, still strong to labor for many years yet, I hope, for our MotherChurch. But I shall let you do as you like. You have been a good servantto me, Diego, and I will not withhold from you your reward. "

Diego had selected a piece of ground of about ten acres, situated northof the mission, and near the foot-hills leading up to a canyon of theSan Gabriel Mountains. A line of shrubs and small trees cut diagonallyacross the land, marking the course of a rivulet, which, not a half-milefarther, lost itself in the light, dry sand of the plain. This tinystream would suffice for irrigation, and it was the particular featurethat had decided Diego to choose this place. He at once set aboutclearing the land and building the house. With the Father's permissionfor everything needed, he soon had a number of neophytes busily at workmaking adobes, and building the walls under his supervision. Houses werequickly built in Nueva California in those days. They were but plain, simple structures at best, and, at the missions, an unlimited number ofworkmen took only a few days to finish one. 

Diego and Juana had a grand wedding. Both favorites of the Father, andDiego, in particular, whom he regarded rather as friend than servant, the priest made it a holiday, and the mission church was crowded to thedoors, in the morning, at the marriage ceremony. In the afternoon theIndians and the Mexicans celebrated the day with a bull-fight, horseracing, and various games and diversions, Mexican and aboriginal. Theday was one long remembered by all the inhabitants of the mission. 

The newly wedded couple took up their abode in the tiny adobe houseDiego had built, and began a life of great happiness, little disturbedby affairs outside their own domain. Life in California, in those days, was a dolce far niente kind of existence that was most captivating, although ruffled at times by troubles with the many Indians on allsides. The days sped by, each one making but the slightest notch in thespan of life. Juana continued her teaching, riding to the mission everyday, where she spent the morning. During the rest of the day, afterreturning home, she busied herself about the house in all domesticduties, or in embroidering, at which she was an adept, her work beingmuch in request, not only at San Gabriel, but at the other missions; orin tending her garden, where were growing many vegetables and fruitsfor their use. The birth of their child brought an added joy to theiralready overflowing life of happiness. But this kind of life could notlast forever, even in that idyllic land of Nueva California. 

Diego was given the services of two neophytes in cultivating his land, leaving him at liberty to continue those of his mission duties whichcould not be delegated to another. And toward the end of the second yearof Diego's married life, his presence at the mission became more urgent, and he was sent off to the neighboring missions with greater frequency, and made longer stays than ever before. Juana began to be anxious, andto wonder what was the cause of these strange proceedings, taking herhusband away from her, sometimes for nearly two weeks at a stretch. Questioning Diego was useless, for he was a discreet servant, and toldher, simply, that the Father's business called him away. This was farfrom satisfying her, of course, but she could learn nothing more fromhim. 

Juana, however, was not dependent entirely upon Diego for information asto what was going on in her little world, that is, at the mission. Shewas an acute little person in spite of her simplicity, and it would nothave taken one as acute as she, to see that something was disturbingthe neophytes, and tending to make them unruly. One day, at the hour forshutting up the Indian children for the night, a youth was discoveredmissing. Search was made, and kept up far into the night and the nextday, but without result. Ordinarily this would have excited no greatattention, but indications of the troublous times of 1824 had alreadymade their appearance, and every little incident out of the commonroutine was looked upon with apprehension. The young Indian returnedat the close of the next day, and tried to appear as if nothing hadoccurred. He was taken immediately to the Father, who questioned himlong and patiently, but with no avail. He would say nothing farther thanthat he had run off to the canyon in the mountains for a day's idleness;and this he maintained, while the priest, wearied and harassed, threatened him with flogging. 

Juana had heard of this, for news in a little community like the missionflies fast. Several times, when on the way to her work at the mission, either as teacher to the Indian girls, or as spinner and weaver of thefine cloth from which were made the vestments and altar decorations, or, if it chanced to be the Sabbath, to attend mass at the church, shehad noticed little groups of the neophytes talking eagerly, but in lowvoices; but so soon as she approached, they separated and went theirseveral ways, giving her a glance of malevolence, or so it seemedto her, as she passed by. These things were enough to show her thatsomething was stirring the neophytes; and whatever that something was, it meant, in the end, danger to the fathers and to all the Mexicansconnected with the mission. 

But the most important, and far the most terrifying, indication ofsomething amiss, was the sight Juana had one day while in the canyonnear her home. She had taken Pepito with her, and wandered up the canyonto the place where the stream came down the mountainside in a series oflittle falls, rushing and tumbling among the boulders that filled itspath. This was a favorite spot with Juana, and here she came frequentlyfor an afternoon holiday, sitting in the shade of the cottonwood treeslining the brook on either side, working on some piece of embroidery forthe church, or, perhaps, some more humble domestic bit of sewing, or, in idle revery, watching the water hurrying by, but never long at a timeforgetting her baby, which was always, of course, her companion. Onthis afternoon Juana had been at her shady nook by the stream, intenton finishing some sewing she had brought with her, before it should cometime to go home. Not a sound was heard above the noise of the stream, the crowing of the child lying on the ground, as it plucked the yellowpoppies, being lost in the wild rush of the water. Chancing to look upwhile she was threading her needle, Juana saw an Indian striding rapidlytoward the stream, which, reaching its bank, he crossed, springingfrom stone to stone; climbing the opposite bank, he made his way up themountainside, and was soon lost to sight behind the brow of a near-byfoothill. Screened as she was by the deep shade of the trees, the Indianhad not seen Juana, and well for her he did not, for her first glancetold her he was one of the untamed savages that, at that late day in theefforts made by the missions for their reclamation, were still numerousin various parts of the country. Juana was well enough acquainted withIndian customs to recognize at once that the savage was on some hostileerrand. He carried a bow in his hand, together with an arrow ready touse without an instant's loss of time. This might have meant he was ona hunting expedition, had not Juana known there was no game of any kind, excepting jack-rabbits and rattlesnakes, within a radius of severalmiles from the mission; for the neophytes had, long before, killedeverything near. This fact as well as his quick gait, showed her he wasnot on any peaceful business. 

With a prayer of thankfulness in her heart (for there was little doubtthe Indian would have killed her, had he seen her) Juana seized herwork, and, with the baby in her arms, made all possible haste to herhome. Her heart was in her mouth more than once, when she fancied shesaw a savage lurking among the trees, or behind some big boulder; butshe reached the house without further incident. 

Diego, who had been away on one of his long absences, arrived home thatsame night. When Juana related to him, almost at the first moment ofgreeting, the incident of the afternoon, Diego listened in surprise andalarm; and when she had finished said:

"Juana, you must not go there again; it is most dangerous. But I donot think you will after what happened to-day. I must go back to themission, and tell the Father what you saw. "

"Tell me, Diego, " implored Juana. "I know there is some trouble with theIndians. Is it very serious? Are we all in danger? Remember what theydid to Father Jaime at San Diego. But they could not do any harm to thefathers now. We are too strong for them. "

"No, Juana, " answered Diego, "the fathers are in no personal danger, Ithink. And the trouble is not here, so much as farther north, at SantaBarbara, and the missions near there. But the fathers at all themissions are on the watch, for no one knows just where or when thetrouble will break forth. The neophytes are dissatisfied, and will notobey their masters. But you must say nothing of this to any one. TheFather wishes to keep it as quiet as possible, so as to alarm no one atthe mission, and to have none of the Indians think they are suspected. Imust go. "

And Diego set out for the mission, from whence he did not return untilseveral hours later. The next day saw him off again on one of his longabsences, bearing letters from the Father to the priests at Capistrano, San Fernando and the more distant Santa Barbara. 

During his absence, Juana hardly dared stir from the house, except totake the beaten road to the mission; and even this required a musteringup of her courage every time she made the short journey, although sheknew a foe would be very unlikely to venture into so exposed a position. On the day of Diego's departure, Father Zalvidea had made her relate tohim every detail of her episode in the canyon. He feared the worst, butmade light of it to her. At the same time he told her she might stayat the mission if she feared to be alone, until such time as the dangershould be past. But Juana could not make up her mind to leave her home, her flowers, which she tended so carefully, and her garden, which, without her daily oversight, would be ruined. Thanking the Father, shesaid she would stay on at home, unless something more should occur. 

Day after day went by without further incident of any kind. Indeed, the presence of the Indian in the canyon appeared to be the last of theseries of occurrences to cause alarm; and the anxiety of the Father andthe Mexicans was quieted. Still, as Diego did not return, they knewthat affairs at the other missions were not in an altogether favorablecondition. 

But at last, after an absence of nearly three weeks, Diego returned, andbrought tidings boding no good. There was no trouble apparent impendingat San Juan Capistrano, and but little at San Fernando; but at SantaBarbara, and especially at Santa Inez, to which missions Diego hadbeen sent by the priests at Santa Barbara, much trouble was feared, andat any moment. The neophytes were watched closely, but there were manygentiles in the mountains around, who had stirred up the mission Indiansto a state of great excitement. However, there was nothing to do, exceptto keep a strict guard. 

Juana was overjoyed to see Diego. She had kept on with her daily workat the mission and at home, and, as nothing further had occurred ofan alarming nature, she had, by degrees, lost much of her terror. Heranxiety for Diego, too, had helped to draw away her thought from herselfand her situation. That was a happy evening for Juana, and her happinesswas increased when Diego told her he would not be obliged to leave againfor some weeks, unless the outbreak that was feared should materializeto call him away. 

Well for us we know not what the morrow may bring forth! Nothingdisturbed Juana's happiness that night, and she fell asleep with a sighof content, and a heart lightened of all fear and anxiety. The nextmorning Diego went to work in the garden not far from the house, leavingJuana busy with her domestic duties. The day after Diego's return fromone of his long absences was always a holiday for Juana, one of themission women taking her place as teacher. Happy and gay she clearedaway the breakfast, swept the room, and washed and dressed the baby, nowand then bursting into song, from sheer excess of joy. It was toward themiddle of the morning, when she heard a sudden cry from Diego. Springingup, she hastened out of the house, and ran to the spot where she hadseen her husband at work a few moments before. It was not until she hadreached the place that she discovered Diego, prone on the ground wherehe had fallen, near the vines he had been pruning. Juana knelt andthrew her arms around his neck, when she saw the arrow from which he hadfallen, buried deep in his breast. 

"Juana, querida, " he whispered hoarsely, "get Pepito and fly to themission. Tell the Father. Leave me; I am past help. The arrow waspoisoned. Go at once. "

"Diego, Diego, I cannot go; let me die here with you. Let the Indiankill me, too. Where is he?" and she looked wildly around. 

"He is hiding among the trees by the stream. Juana, go, I command you. Santa Maria! Save her from the cruel savage, who may be, even now, watching us. "

Enfolding her in a close embrace, he kissed her many times, then, withhis remaining strength, pushed her from him and motioned her to go. 

Juana did not move. She clung to Diego, weeping bitterly, as shewhispered endearing names. The time of delay, however, was not long, forthe Indian's aim had been true; and without the aid of the poison withwhich the arrow was tipped, Diego was doomed. Suddenly Juana felt atremor pass through him; his head fell back on the ground, and with adeep sigh, he closed his eyes and was dead. 

Juana gazed long on the inanimate form of her husband, then, with a lastparting kiss, turned toward the house. She thought now of Pepito, forthe first time since she had left him, and she quickened her steps, going faster as she neared the house, and her fear of the hidden savagecame over her. The time she had been absent was short, though it seemedhours to her, and she found the baby playing in the sunlight thatstreamed in the window. Snatching him up convulsively, she dashed outof the house, and ran at her utmost speed along the road that led to themission, nearly three miles away. Her horse was tethered in the field, not one hundred yards from her, but she was too frightened to think ofthat. Her one thought was to get away from the Indian, and to reach themission, forgetting in her unceasing fear that she was completely at themercy of her foe, and that, were he bent on still further mischief, byhurrying unduly, she was only hastening the bitter moment. 

And so it proved. The road to the mission lay at an acute angle with thecourse of the stream, and the place where Juana supposed the Indian tobe hid was, for some distance, almost in front of her. She hurried on, looking neither to right nor left, but with gaze bent tensely on themission church, the cross on the roof alone being visible above thetree tops. She had gone only a few yards when she heard a sudden, sharpwhistling in the air near her. Startled, she glanced quickly to oneside, and clutched the baby more closely to her--too late; she saw notthe arrow, such was its velocity, but felt the baby give one spasmodicbound. She flew along the road, the child screaming as she ran. As sheneared the mission, and the houses clustered around it, the inmatesstarted from their various occupations and gazed in astonishment atJuana as she sped by, wild-eyed, her hair streaming in the wind. 

Father Zalvidea had passed the morning in reading the letters Diego hadbrought to him the night before, and meditating gloomily on the prospectconfronting the missions. He did not fear any particular trouble atSan Gabriel, but the news he had had from some of the northernestablishments was not reassuring; and the missions were so closelyunited in one common bond, that what was an injury to one was an injuryto all. After reading and re-reading the letters, he put them away, andbetook himself to his garden for a little pasear before his midday meal. He had paced the length of the garden only two or three times, when hewas aroused from his revery by the abrupt appearance of a woman whom, from the agony distorting her face, and her long fluttering hair, he didnot at once recognize. As soon as she saw him Juana cried out, "Father, Father!" and staggering forward a step, fell, unconscious, at his feet. Calling loudly for help, the priest bent over, and caught the baby fromher arms. At sight of the arrow he exclaimed: "Now may God help us!" forhe understood, on the instant, its import. 

By this time he was surrounded by a number of women and servants, and, not heeding their ejaculations, he bade them carry Juana into the house. The baby was past help--the arrow had pierced its neck, and the childwas even then in the stupor that would give way only to death, thepoison working rapidly in the small body. But the Father could notlinger. Leaving Juana and the child in care of the household, he quicklyalarmed the Mexican contingent of the mission, and put them on guard. A small number of armed men were sent to reconnoitre the mountains nearDiego's home. The hunt was kept up for two days; but nothing was foundexcept the tracks of the Indian in the soft mud of the river, and acircle of ashes, the remains of a small fire. From all indications therehad been only one Indian in the neighborhood, and he, apparently, haddisappeared to return no more, for nothing was seen of him, though awatch was maintained there for several weeks. 

Such a state of extreme uncertainty as the mission was in could not havelasted long, and the Father knew that unless something were done to endit, the neophytes would most certainly rise in rebellion, and slay theirmasters. Fortunately all danger was removed, a few days after Diego'stragic end, by the arrival of a messenger with letters from SantaBarbara. The news they contained was most grave. The vague, intangibleanxiety, so long experienced, had culminated at last in the uprising ofthe Indians at Mission Purezima. On the Sabbath morning previous, theyhad made a sudden assault on the mission, and had burned many of thebuildings, almost ruined the church, and, after much fighting, haddriven the Mexicans with the fathers to Mission Santa Inez, twenty-fivemiles distant. Word had been sent at once to Monterey, and a detachmentof soldiers from the presidio there had hastened to the spot. Thisrequired two days, during which the insurgents held the mission; but onthe arrival of the troops, they were soon ousted and forced to retire. 

The same thing was attempted at Santa Inez, but not much difficulty wasfound in quelling the disturbance. Some signs of insubordination wereshown at the neighboring missions, San Luis Obispo in the north, andSanta Barbara, San Buenaventura and San Fernando south of the scene ofthe trouble; but there was no disturbance after the Indians had learnedthat the attempt at Purezima was unsuccessful; and they hastened topledge obedience to the fathers. There were four hundred Indians inactive insurrection, and although many were wounded, only sixteen werekilled. 

As for San Gabriel, the shooting of Diego and his child was the onlyincident that occurred at this mission which showed the condition ofthings prevailing everywhere; and Father Zalvidea was thankful to haveit no worse--yet long he mourned for his faithful servant. When Diegoand Pepito were buried, the Father made a solemn and impressive addressto the neophytes, painting in vivid colors the pains of hell, whichthose engaged in the insurrection were in danger of experiencing afterdeath, contrasting it with the joys of those blessed ones who did God'swill on earth, and received their own great reward hereafter. 

Juana was delirious and raving for many days. The shock itself wassufficient to cause her illness, but it was surmised that the arrow, which had slain Pepito, had entered an inch or so into her arm. In theexcitement of her sudden appearance and fainting, when the Father tookthe child from her, this was not noticed; but a few hours later herarm became much swollen and very painful; and as a slight wound wasdiscovered, the Father concluded some of the poison had entered hersystem. This was the only plausible theory to account for her swollenarm, and also, perhaps, for her subsequent condition; for Juana, alas!never recovered her mental faculties after the fever left her. Regainingher physical health, the memory of her former life was an almostcomplete blank. All she seemed to have retained were the refrains of twoor three songs she had been accustomed to sing to Diego, in the firstmonths of their married life. 

Juana lived for many years, and until she became an old, old woman. Shewas always treated with the greatest consideration by every one at themission, for her story was known, at first, as an event in their missionlife, then, as the years went by, as history and tradition. Meek andgentle she was. It was only when thwarted in her desires that she becamearoused to a pitch of angry insanity which made her dangerous. Thischanced very seldom, for she was allowed to do as she pleased in allthings. And so she lived, unnoting the many and great changes that tookplace from year to year in Nueva California--San Gabriel losing itsgreatness and power, ceasing, even, together with all the others, its life as a mission, and the province itself torn from the grasp ofMexico, to become a member of the greatest republic in the world--herunheeding mind knew nothing of all this. Her favorite pastime, after therailroad was built through the little town of San Gabriel, was towander down to the station, when time for the trains, which she quicklylearned, and to greet them with the snatches of song that remained withher--sole vestige of her former life. 

But death came at last to this poor wayfarer on life's journey, and shewas buried in the cemetery near the church, by the side of her husbandand her child, the place which had been, by common consent, reserved forher in the sadly overcrowded little campo santo. Here lies all ofher that was mortal. We know she is well once more, with her mind andmemory, touched by divine healing, restored to her, and, we may be sure, happy in the companionship of her loved ones. 

Father Uria's Saints

"Therefore I went to Father Uria and told him your story. He was verykind, and bade me write to you that you might trust him to find yousomething to do if you should decide to come here. Have no fear; thereare not enough men at San Buenaventura to prevent a single man fromhaving all the work he may wish. Make haste and come. Do not delay. Diego. " The reader finished the letter, and there was a silence of someminutes between the two, reader and listener. The former, a young man, not much more than twenty-five years of age, had a moody expression onhis dark face. After reading the letter he waited for his companion tospeak. But Maria, his wife, appeared not to notice this and remainedsilent. The two were sitting on the porch of a little adobe house on theoutskirts of the presidio town of Tubac, Mexico, a few, miles from thecoast of the Gulf of California. This had been the home of Benito'sparents, and since their death three years before, that of himself andhis wife. For a time they had been happy in their hard-working life, forlove lightened their toil; but toward the close of the second year intheir home they had suffered a series of reverses that sadly crippledBenito's resources. First there had been a season of such heat anddrought that all their labor in the dozen acres which Benito cultivatedcame to naught, and they gathered hardly more than enough to keep themfrom starving before the next year's harvest. Then one of Benito'shorses, of which he had three, and fine ones they were, had been takensick and died just at the time when it was most needed, during the earlysummer plowing--both Benito's and his neighbors'; for after the work onhis own land was done, Benito worked for others, thus adding somethingtoward their income. The death of his horse was a severe blow to him, not only because he loved his horses, but because his income was greatlycurtailed in consequence. With three horses Benito could use a pairevery day, and yet allow each horse to rest one day out of three; butwith two, it could be done only by losing a day's work out of everythree; and this was the plan Benito had followed, for he could notbring himself to use his good steeds every day. This had occurred in thespring following the poor harvest. 

Some weeks later, about six months before our story opens, anotherdisaster befell these two unfortunate ones. One night, Benito and Mariahad been awakened by a terrible uproar in their chicken house. Benitorushed out to find it in flames. Some traveler passing, after smokinga cigarette, had, most likely, carelessly thrown the burning stub amongthe inflammable boards and loose stuff of the enclosure. Benito did whathe could to rescue the hens and chickens, but of all of his flock, hesaved a mere score. This last calamity was almost more than Maria couldbear. The hens had been her especial care. She had, under her skillfultending, seen the flock increase from the small nucleus of a dozen, which Benito had bought and given her on her coming to his home, a fewdays after they were married, to over one hundred. These hens had beenthe source of no small profit, and by their means Benito was able to putaside a little nest egg each year. And now they must begin again! It washard, and both felt there was no relief for them. The little they hadsaved during the first few years had to be used for the summer sowing, and for food until they could gather a harvest. Here, again, Benitofound there would not be more than sufficient for their wants, and that, when the next sowing time came, they would be in a worse condition thanat present for continuing the struggle for existence. Altogether Benitoand Maria were on the edge of despair. 

Shortly after the death of Benito's parents, his elder brother had madeone of a band of artisans, laborers and soldiers, in company with twoFranciscan priests, to the province of Nueva California. Diego, who wasof a roving disposition, had wandered off to the south, working at histrade of carpentry as the mood seized him, or the state of his pocketforced him, now here, now there, until finally he found himself inthe coast town of San Blas. This was the point from which many of theexpeditions to the northern province set sail; and the busy preparationsfor departure, which Diego witnessed, fired his desire to join a companyabout to leave for the remote, half-mythical region in the north. Thishe did, and, some weeks later, landed at Monterey, whence, in the courseof the next year, he worked his way south until he reached Mission SanBuenaventura. Here he settled down permanently, having grown tired ofhis aimless life, and became an active and useful man to the Father. Communication between the two countries in those days was infrequent, and Benito had heard his brother was settled at San Buenaventura onlyafter he had been there nearly a year. Diego described, in glowingterms, the advantages of the province--the fine climate, exceedingfertility of the soil, land to be had for the asking, where everythingnecessary and desired could be grown, and his own content, far away, though he was, from his old home. This letter had reached Benito whenhe was at the lowest ebb of his fortunes. The glowing language of hisbrother's description of Nueva California awakened an intense longingin his heart to go there and make a new beginning, under more favorableinfluences. He said nothing to Maria, but wrote a letter to Diego, telling of his troubles, and asking if there were room for himself andwife in that new land. This he sent off by a friend to San Blas, whereit was given over to a priest who, in turn, was to deliver it into thecharge of the next expedition to be sent out. Benito had written nearlysix months before, and had about given up looking for an answer, when aneighbor, returning home from the town, handed him a letter as he passedby. His brother gave him encouraging news and advised him to come, ending with the words quoted above. After reading it, Benito hastenedto find Maria, and with her by his side on the little porch he read itagain to her. 

At last Maria broke the silence:

"Benito, I am glad you wrote to Diego, and I feel sure the best thingfor us to do is to go. How can we keep on in the way we have been doingthe last two years? I am tired and disheartened, and I know you aretoo; but there, in the new land, we could make another start with bettercourage. Let us go. " Maria looked up at Benito, smiling brightly, butwith tears in her eyes. 

Benito lost no time in carrying out his plan, and at the end of a fewweeks he had sold his house and land, and all his furniture and farmingtools, reserving only his horses. These, with a few clothes, and twohundred dollars in gold in his pocket, made up the entire wealth of thispoor couple. As Benito wished to keep his horses, he decided to go tothe new country overland by way of the Colorado River, and across thedesert to Mission San Gabriel. This had been the regular route of theland expeditions of the early days of mission history, and was stillused, although less frequently. Benito and Maria had not long to waitwhen a company was formed to start out on the long journey of sevenhundred miles to Mission San Buenaventura. 

At the time of the setting out of our friends in the year 1830, traveling overland from Mexico to California was an easy thing, comparedto the hardship and dangers of fifty years earlier. Then, the way, through the desert around the mouth of the Colorado River, was beset bythe fierce and powerful Yuma Indians, and unless the band of travelerswere large and well armed, it would suffer severely at their hands. Butthe Yumas had become subdued with time, and traveling made safe. Thecompany with which Benito and Maria journeyed had no mishap, and afterfour weeks passed on the way, they arrived, one evening late in October, at Mission San Buenaventura, just as the bells of the mission churchwere pealing out their evening burden. 

What a charming place Mission San Buenaventura was in those days!Situated on the coast, it stood not a half-mile from the water, whichit faced, while behind, and close to it, was a line of hills running offinto the distance until they disappeared on the horizon. At the timeof year our pilgrims first saw it, there was little remaining of theverdant freshness of spring and early summer. But if Nature refuses topermit southern California to wear her mantle of green later than Mayor June, she has bestowed on her a wealth of warm yellow, red andbrown, which, to some, is even more pleasing. The bare ground takes on avividness of glowing color that is almost incredible, while the hills inthe distance run through another gamut of color--from yellow throughall the shades of orange to an almost pure pink, with pale blue shadows, changing at sunset to intensest purple. Color is rife in California. 

The mission consisted of a large white adobe church, a long line ofbuildings adjoining in which lived the padre and the Mexicans, anda number of little houses and cabins, some of adobe, but the greaternumber of straw and rushes, which sheltered the Indians. These littlehuts were scattered around irregularly on all sides; and to them theinmates were wending their way from their daily toil in the fields andamong the horses and cattle, and from all the occupations of a pastorallife. Nothing more beautiful could well be imagined than the picture themission made in the rosy light of sunset--crowds of savages, children ofnature gathered together to receive the rich blessings bestowed on themby the fathers, deriving their authority from the Church whose symbol, the great white building, towering above all else of man's work, stoodlike a sentinel guarding the religious life of the mission. 

Father Uria had been pacing to and fro in front of the mission for morethan an hour, waiting impatiently for the expedition from Mexico, whichhad been expected two days before, its regular time of arrival. It wasnot at all unusual for these bands to be delayed three or four days, andthat without meeting with any accident on the way; but news from homewas infrequent to a degree that made an expedition to the provinceawaited with almost unreasonable impatience. Mail, as well as everythingelse, came usually by sea; but to send letters by the desert route wasby no means rare. 

Father Uria was known to all his fraternity in the country for hiseccentricity. He was a small, rather stout man, about sixty years ofage, every one of which had left its mark upon him; for his had been alife of toil surpassed by but few, even among those self-denying workersin the Lord's vineyard. But the hardships of his life had not quenchedhis jovial spirits, which were, indeed, irrepressible. A laughinggreeting for every one he met, Mexican or Indian, was his habit, onethat might have begotten a measure of contempt in the beholder, had theFather not possessed a sternness, latent for the most part, it istrue, but which could, on occasion, be evoked to prop up the apparentlytottering respect due him. Father Uria was fond, too, of company, not only for its own sake, but because it gave him an excuse for thepleasures of the table, and, in especial, for enjoying the delights ofthe wine made at Mission San Gabriel, and which was in demand by all themissions. This was a weakness seldom indulged in, for the Father carednot for imbibing this delectable liquid unless assisted by pleasantcompany; and occasions when this could be had were rare. Let not thereader infer from this that our respected fraile was guilty of drinkingmore than was good or seemly for him. There had been a whisper one time, going the rounds of the missions, that he had been uproariously drunkon some occasion in the past; one slanderous tongue said the priest hadbeen reprimanded by President Sanchez, but we do not believe a word ofthis. And who would grudge him all the pleasure he might get from thegood San Gabriel wine? Think of the poor padre, expatriated for the restof his days, and in a land that wanted much to make life seem worth theliving! Our hearts go out to the Father, as to all the other good menwho had done likewise, in deepest sympathy. 

It is not our intention to enumerate all the peculiarities ofFather Uria. But there was one, before which all the rest sank intoinsignificance, and that was his excessive fondness for cats. The loveof cats is more particularly a feminine trait; and this, together withhis strength of mind, marked though it was usually by his geniality, makes it the more surprising in Father Uria's case. Yet such was thefact, and as such was it recognized by all with whom he came in contact;for in this instance it was "love me love my"--cats! This hobby of thefriar was one he had had from childhood; but gaining man's estate, he had kept it in subjection (fearing it was not in accord with thestrictest propriety, especially after taking orders) until he came toCalifornia. Here he had found a life of such loneliness, that, as arefuge from almost unbearable ennui, he had gone back to his youthfulfeline love with more than youthful ardor. When he came to take chargeof the Mission, San Buenaventura, three years before, he had broughtwith him, carefully watched over, four immense cats, which had long beenhis pets. These he still had, and in their companionship he found hisgreatest solace for a life of solitude. 

Father Uria continued his walking to and fro, gazing off to the eastalong the road which the expedition from Mexico must traverse on its wayto Monterey. Behind him, almost at his heels, trotted one of his pets, seeming to be perfectly content to follow the footsteps of her master, and showing unbounded joy, when he stopped for a moment to pet and speakto her. 

"Well! gatita mia, you are the only one to stay with your old master. Where are the others? Off hunting for gophers, I suppose. But hereare the travelers at last, " and he hurried down the road toward theapproaching train, the cat bounding along at his side, or running offevery few feet, now this way, now that, to chase a butterfly or mosquitohawk. Once, in her haste to overtake her master, she encountered ahorned toad. With a spring to one side, and a loud "spst!" she passedit, for this pet of Father Uria was acquainted with these hated objects, but could never overcome her intense horror of them. We are much afraidthis puss is a sad coward. 

The Father reached the band of travelers, and he received from thecommander the packet of letters destined for the mission. Then, witha few words of welcome to all, he bade them follow him to the mission, where they would find refreshment and shelter for the night. On the way, singling out Benito and Maria (the former from his resemblance to Diego)Father Uria questioned them as to their journey, and plans for theirfuture home at his mission. Benito related his story, and hopes offinding some occupation. 

"Diego tells me you are skilled in gardening, " said the Father. "Wouldyou like to take charge of my garden and orchard? My gardener is growingtoo old for work, and I have long had thoughts of retiring him. I havewaited only to find some one to take his place, and when Diego told meof you, I thought you might be the one I want. What say you?"

"I thank you heartily, my Father, " replied Benito. "I should, indeed, behappy and proud to do that, if I can prove worthy. "

They reached the mission, and there Benito found Diego waiting towelcome him. After bidding Benito to come and see him in the morning, asDiego led them away to his own little home, the Father went in, his catfollowing. Leaving her in the house, the Father passed on to the church, where he performed the usual short evening service of the rosario, afterwhich he returned to his habitation. No sooner was he in the house, thanhe was fairly bombarded by a small army of cats, or so it seemed;for although there were only four, including the one with whom we arealready acquainted, one might have thought, from the noise and confusionthey made, trying to get at their dear master, that there were a dozenat least. 

"Now, my cats, you really must behave yourselves a little better thanthis, " said the Father, with a tone of sternness, which, however, hadnot the slightest effect, since he began at once to pet them, first oneand then another, as they crowded around him. "I know you are hungry, but that is no excuse for making such a disturbance. Come, we shall havesupper, " and with these words he went into his dining-room, the catstrooping after him. 

Father Uria always had his table set with as much variety and luxury ashis meagre salary, and the resources of the mission, allowed. He wasnot a hearty eater, nor, as we have said, did he drink largely of wine, unless he had the support of congenial company, but he insisted onvariety. His vegetable garden was his pride, and the object of extremistsolicitude. In it he had, in flourishing condition, every sort ofedible, including, as well, the fruits especially adapted to thatclimate. As he was seldom favored with guests, he had made it a customto have his pet cats bear him company at his meals; and he had trainedthem so well that they were, in general, as perfectly behaved, in theirlimited capacity, as the best mannered human being; only occasionally, when hunger gained the upper hand, did they break the bounds ofcat-decorum. They had their places opposite the Father, in two chairs, two cats, side by side, in each chair; and there they would sit, lookingwith meek but hungry eyes, first at the Father, then at the meat andcream destined for their repast. 

But it is time these cats were introduced to the reader, for suchintimate and (if we may be permitted to use the word) personal friendsof the priest should have a regular introduction. Let us begin then, with the first, and, as it happens, the oldest and most sedate one. Hisname is San Francisco, a solemn-looking beast, large and handsome; heis a maltese, and is admired by all who have seen him. The cat sittingquietly by his side in the same chair is Santa Barbara, a maltese likeher companion, but younger and not so handsome, only because not solarge. Next comes, in the second chair, the cat whose acquaintance wehave already made, Santa Clara, the Father's usual companion at alltimes, for she has less roving blood in her veins, and prefers remainingwith her master to hunting and other feline diversions. She, too, ismaltese, but has white paws, the only deviation from pure blood that anyof the four cats show. The last, the youngest and smallest cat (althoughshe can boast of five years of age, and, in any company but the present, would be considered a fine large animal), is Santa Inez, the daughterof Santa Barbara. She is the one to get into all the mischief of whichcats are capable; to run away and lead every one a lively chase untilshe is found, for the Father (let us whisper it under our breath) wouldfeel nearly as much sorrow at the loss of one of his cats, as he wouldat losing the soul of one of his neophytes. 

We fear much that our reader will be ready to set Father Uria down as amere fool, or a half-crazy old man, and to sneer at him and his preciouscats. But are not we all crazy on some subject; has not each one of ussome hobby or idiosyncrasy which makes us appear more or less dementedto our neighbors? And just because the twist in our poor Father's mindtakes the particular form of a love for cats: why should we, how darewe, say he is crazy? No, he was no more crazy than are we; and perhapshis beautiful cats kept him from becoming so, in very sooth, forcedto live in the wilderness, if we may call it that, deprived of all thehappiness of his native land, and of the friends for whom these catsmake a poor substitute at the best. 

But there is one point on which we cannot find excuse for the Father, that is, in giving his cats the names of some of the most respectedand venerated saints among the Franciscans; going so far, indeed, asto bestow upon his finest cat the name of Saint Francis himself, thefounder of the order. It is difficult to conceive of such irreverence ina priest, himself a member of that great order in the Catholic Church;and it is this, if anything, which would show a weakness of the mind. But even here, let us say, not as excuse, but in mitigation of hisoffense, that only from inadvertence did the Father speak to, or of, his cats by these names in any one's hearing; and there were only two orthree people at the mission who knew after what august personagesthey were called. Besides, their full title was usually reserved foroccasions of reprimand, and with these well-mannered creatures suchoccasions were rare indeed. 

"Well, " said the Father, beginning his own supper, after having giventhe cats each their portion of meat in a large deep plate, flanked by asaucer brimming full of sweet cream, "aren't you pretty cats to go offand leave me the whole afternoon? Clara was the only one to keep mecompany. What is the use in having four cats to amuse me, if you mean torun off whenever the notion seizes you? I want you cats to be home allthe time. You, San Francisco, should have stayed here with Clara as youare the largest. I think I shall have to tie you up to-morrow. No, Ibelieve I'll punish you now by taking away your supper, " saying which, the Father reached across the table and removed the plate of meat andthe cream from in front of Francisco, who had just begun to devourhis repast. "Miou! Miou!" said Francisco, piteously, looking after hissupper, which the priest put down on the table near his own. It was toomuch: Francisco forgot his manners and with one bound he leaped acrossthe table, snatched up a piece of meat, and, with a growl of defiance, began chewing it vigorously. The Father laughed and returned the cat'ssupper. "I am afraid, Francisco, you did not catch much in your huntthis afternoon, for you appear to be as hungry as usual. So I won'tpunish you by depriving you of your supper. Go back to your place. "

After supper, the Father, accompanied by his friends, made a tour of themission to see that everything was safe for the night; then, returningto his house by the church, he spent the evening reading the letters andmessages brought to him that day, and in studying for an hour or so bythe help of the few theological books his library boasted. FatherUria was an intelligent and well-educated man, and took delight inthe investigation of the abstruse subjects and doctrines his Churchafforded. He did this from natural inclination, and not from anypractical use to be made of such study in his capacity as head ofthe mission. People in Nueva California, in those days, not only theIndians, but the Mexicans and Spaniards, were of the utmost simplicityof mind, entirely unable to grasp anything beyond the rudiments of theirfaith. 

Early the next morning Benito made his appearance. The Father conductedhim out to his garden, and showed him the method he had pursued inbringing everything to a high state of cultivation. Irrigation wasnot absolutely essential, as at many of the other missions; but, notwithstanding, Father Uria had evolved a miniature system in hisgarden by means of a spring in the foot-hills, half a mile away, fromwhich water was brought in a narrow flume. This had long been in use forthe general needs of the mission; but it was reserved for Father Uriato apply some of the surplus water to the garden. Father Uria had oncevisited the garden at Mission San Gabriel which had been the specialpride and comfort of Father Zalvidea; and it was with complacentsatisfaction that, in comparing it with his own, he saw the lattersuffered no disparagement. His was in fully as flourishing condition, but the element of picturesque beauty was lacking; his needs for agarden were entirely utilitarian, while Father Zalvidea required beautyquite as much as use. The two gardens were typical of the two men. SoBenito was installed as his gardener. 

While the Father was showing Benito the garden, and explaining to himabout the plants, the cats which, as usual, had followed him, employedthe time in roaming around among the bushes, searching intently foranything alive which might make fair game. They scattered in alldirections, one after a humming-bird, another chasing a butterfly; thethird wandered off lazily to a big patch of catnip for a sniff of itsdelightful aroma; while the fourth began to career to and fro after adragon-fly, in the wildest fashion. The priest and Benito had moved offto an asparagus bed, to consult about the best treatment to give it, for the plants were slowly dying, and the Father was in a quandary. Thedragon-fly alighted to rest on his broad-brimmed hat. All unconsciousof its presence, he talked on with Benito, expounding his theory of theproper treatment for the asparagus, when, suddenly, as he bent over aplant to look at it more closely, with a blow that almost knocked himdown, his hat went flying from his head, and fell to the ground severalyards away, while at his feet dropped the venturesome Inez. She was upin an instant, looking for her prey, but it was out of sight. 

With an exclamation rather stronger than was quite proper in one of hiscloth, the Father turned to the cat. 

"What is the meaning of this business, Inez? Really, you are getting tobe insufferable. I cannot allow you to come out with me if you carry onin this way. " Benito had run to pick up his hat, and offered it to him, his eyes dancing with merriment, and the corners of his mouth twitching. The Father took it, and noting the gleam in his eyes, smiled himself. "These cats of mine will be the death of me some day, I expect, " hesaid, laughing. "Go along, Inez, and remember to show a little morerespect for your master another time. "

These saints of Father Uria were given the run of the entire mission, and were known to all its inhabitants. Although every one was kind tothem, the cats were dignified and distant toward all but the Father andBenito, after the latter had lived there a few months. It had graduallybecome one of Benito's duties to keep an eye on them; shut them up whenthe Father did not wish them around; and when, as occasionally happened, they ran away, to search for them. Usually they would return of theirown accord the second day, if not found the night before; but the Fathercould not sleep unless he knew his precious animals were housed safely, and an effort was always made to find the truants before night set in. 

From the time Benito and Maria made San Buenaventura their home, Fortuneagain turned her face toward them. Benito, with steady employment as theFather's gardener and trusted servant, was prosperous and happy; whileMaria once more had her chickens, although the demand for her poultryand eggs was smaller than she had found in her former home in Mexico. She seldom missed her old associates, busy as she was, and content withher simple tasks the whole day long. What a quiet, peaceful life wasthat at the California missions in the old days! Perhaps, reader, you think humdrum would be the more appropriate adjective to use thanpeaceful or even quiet. And to one like our Father Uria, thousands ofmiles from his early home, cut off from all the pleasures and advantagesof ordinary social intercourse, it was, as we have seen, more, muchmore, than humdrum. But for Maria, the life at the mission was notunlike that they had been accustomed to in their former Mexican home. California was Mexico in those days, and the life greatly similar. 

About two years after Benito's arrival at San Buenaventura, a dreadfulmisfortune befell Father Uria, in the death of his largest and finestcat--San Francisco. This saint had always manifested a most singular andinveterate propensity, to hunt tarantulas. More than once he had beendiscovered when just on the point of beginning a battle with one ofthose monsters, and had been stopped in the nick of time. With almostconstant watchfulness, the Father had succeeded in preserving the lifeof his cat for many years; but the reader has already guessed what theend was to be. After an absence of three whole days, during which theFather was almost distracted, Benito found the saint dead on the plain, fully a mile from the mission. On one paw, which was slightly swollen, a minute wound was discovered, supposed to have been the bite of thevenomous spider, although the Father could not tell positively. PoorFather Uria was inconsolable, and from that day his health, which hadbeen deserting him for many months, yet so gradually as to be hardlyperceptible, took a sudden change for the worse, and with the long yearsof toil he had lived, soon made great inroads on his strength. Lessthan a year after this dire event, he became so feeble that, at hisown request, he was relieved. The last thing he did before leaving SanBuenaventura was to give his three remaining friends into the charge ofBenito, who promised to care for them faithfully, so long as they lived. Much the Father would have liked to take them with him, but he wasgrowing too feeble to care for them; and once retired from his positionas head of the mission, he would not have enough power and authority tobe able to treat them as such old and dear friends should be treated. Weshall not attempt to depict the sorrowful parting between the Father andhis cats--it would need the master hand of a Dickens to keep the comicelement in the pathetic scene within due bounds. The Father, poor oldman, felt no further interest in life, broken down in health and obligedto give up his companions, his only comfort being the thought that hisremaining days were few, and would soon pass. 

He removed to Mission Santa Barbara, and there, some months later, at the close of the year 1834, he died, worn out in the cause of hisMaster. 

Note. --This story of Father Uria and his oddities is not whollyfanciful. In an early book on California occurs the following:"At dinner the fare was sumptuous, and I was much amused at theeccentricities of the old Padre (Father Uria), who kept constantlyannoying four large cats, his daily companions; or with a long stickthumped upon the heads of his Indian boys, and seemed delighted thus togratify his singular propensities. " Alfred Robinson: Life in California, New York, 1846, Chap. IV, page 50. 

Pomponio

Liberty! Liberty! For a half-century we have done nothing but repeatthis word, and one would say that those mouths which pronounce it belongto the heads which are ignorant of its meaning, or rather that it hasno meaning; for, if one says: 'We are free!' ten others cry out at once:'We, we are oppressed!' Such an one who found, a few years ago, toogreat a freedom, to-day demands very much more; and this is, doubtless, because each one has his own idea of liberty, and it is impossible tocreate a liberty for each one. --Liberty to empty the treasury ofthe state. --Liberty to seize public position. --Liberty to gatherin sinecures. --Liberty to get one's self pensioned for imaginaryservices. --Liberty to calumniate, abuse, revile the most veneratedthings. --Is this to enjoy liberty? No, it is to abuse it, to profane it. 

"It is, then, shown that no one is agreed on what is political liberty;but it is not that about which I wished to write. It is a freedomcomposed, I will not say of all men, but of all beings who are inexistence; it is this that nature demands imperiously; it is this, intruth, that crime compels society to take away from the wrong-doer; butit is this, also, that injustice and force snatch away from the unhappyslave. "

Thus wrote Captain Duhaut-Cilly in his journal for the year 1827, contrasting his ideal of freedom with the actual condition of theaborigines in California, under the domination, as they were at thattime, of the Catholic Church, through its agent, the order of theFranciscans. 

Just a few words are necessary here as an introduction to the storyof Pomponio, to enable the reader to have a clear impression of thecondition of affairs, political and ecclesiastical, in the province ofNueva California during the first thirty years of the past century. When the country was explored and settled by the Franciscans, theirostensible and, in the earlier days, real, aim was to civilize theIndians, teaching them to live useful, moral lives, and instructing themin the doctrines of Christianity. But to do this, force was necessaryto subdue the turbulence of insubordination. Gradually, at last, thegreater number of the natives were forced under the rule of the friars, who brought them to such subjection as was actual slavery in all but inname. It is a matter of regret that this was so, yet, though an evil, it was a necessary one, for to do any measure of good to the Indians, an oversight in every detail was essential; and, after all, the savageswere treated with almost uniform mildness, and the instances of crueltyand wickedness practiced toward them, as in this tale of Pomponio, weremost happily very rare. It is a blot on the history of the Franciscansin California that there was a single instance of anything but kindnessand humanity; but the truth cannot be ignored, however much it grieve usto know it. Let us turn to Pomponio. His is a strange tale. 

Distant about a league south from Mission San Francisco stood a littleIndian hut, made from the tules and rushes which were found growing withsuch luxuriance in all parts of Nueva California. It was built in theform of a cone with a blunt apex, was less than ten feet in diameter, and but little more than that in height. An opening near the ground gavecommunication with the outer air, and a small hole at the top of thehut allowed the smoke from the fire to pass away. This hut stood in thecentre of a small open spot among the trees of the dense forest whichsurrounded it on all sides; small in extent like the many other woodedspots in the peninsula which terminated at the mission and the presidioof San Francisco, but sufficiently large to force a stranger to themto lose his way almost at the first step. But, difficult to find by thestranger, this little open space was correspondingly safe from pursuitby any one bent on hostile deeds; and for this reason it had beenselected by Pomponio for a retreat for himself. 

Pomponio was a mission Indian, had been connected with the religiousestablishment since boyhood, and had made, great progress on the way tobecoming a civilized human being. He had a mind above the low levelof the average Californian Indian intellect, and had been an object ofsolicitude to the padres, arousing in them an interest in his mental andspiritual welfare seldom evoked by the neophytes in general. For yearsPomponio had been contented with the life he led under the tutelage andcontrol of the fathers, receiving unquestioningly their teaching, andregarding their ordering and direction of his and his parents' life andactions in every particular with indifferent eyes. But when Pomponioleft childhood and youth behind him, and acquired the mind of a man, Indian though it was, he began to see the state of things in a differentlight. "What right have these padres, " he would say to himself, "to comehere from far away, take our land from us, make us work for them, andorder us about as we should women and children taken from our enemies inwar? And what do they give us in return? They teach us the religionof their God, and make us learn their catechism. Is their religion any, better than ours their God more powerful than the Great Spirit? Whatbetter is it to till the ground for growing food than to kill the wildanimals with bow and arrow? Why did my father's father and all thestrong men of those days permit these espanoles to come here? I wouldhave, withstood them to the last drop of my life's blood. "

Thus would Pomponio question. The Indians of Nueva California were mildand gentle, having nothing in common with their neighbors, the warlikeYumas, and were easily subjected by the early Franciscans. But gentleand pliant as they were, there were always a few, fiercer than the rest, who did not brook calmly the sight of their subjection; and these bolderones stirred up, from time to time, the other natives to insurrection. Many were the uprisings at the different missions--one of the earliestat San Diego, in 1775, when the savages killed one of the padres; one, the last, and only a few months before the beginning of our tale, latein 1824, when the two missions, Purezima and Santa Inez, were almostdestroyed. This last uprising had had more to do with Pomponio's changeof attitude toward the fathers than anything else; and it had fired hiszeal to devote his life to the freeing of his kindred and tribe from theslavery in which they were held at Mission San Francisco. 

Pomponio, simple savage that he was, knew little of human nature; eitherIndian or civilized. He judged others by himself, not realizing thegreat difference between himself and the generality of the tribe towhich he belonged. He had had many talks with the various men of thetribe, trying to instill into their minds some of the ferment of hisown; but to his amazement and anger they were too far sunk in theirservitude to be roused by his projects. A few there were, young andventuresome like himself, who declared themselves ready to follow himas a leader; and among these were some of the fierce savages of theforests, with whom he was always in touch; but how could a mere handfulof a score of Indians cope successfully with the men of the mission, aided, as they would be, by the trained soldiers of the presidio?Pomponio had sense enough to see that such procedure would be foolhardy, and he abandoned the plan for the time, hoping his little body offollowers would increase, when the disparity in strength and numbersbetween the two sides might be less. 

Pomponio was some twenty-three years old. A short time before he hadmarried an Indian girl, and, with her, lived in a little adobe house, a few paces from the mission church. Pomponio and Rosa had lived theregular life of the neophytes, working at various occupations of thecommunity--Pomponio tilling the ground and caring for the crops, andhelping in the making of bricks for the houses; Rosa spinning andweaving and cooking. After they were married they continued with theircustomary labors, still under the tutelage of the fathers. But aboutthis time, Father Altimira had begun to notice the alteration inPomponio's demeanor. Wondering at the change in one of his mostpromising neophytes, he had sought to find a clue to the mystery. Froman unquestioning readiness in everything pertaining to his mission life, Pomponio had begun to neglect his duties, shirking the tasks given him, wandering off among the mountains and stirring up the mission Indiansto a state of dissatisfaction and ill-feeling. Father Altimira hadseen Pomponio's growing negligence with concern, but to his questioningPomponio would give no answer as to the reason for his new attitudetoward his masters. The Father, finding that persuasion was of no availin correcting Pomponio's disobedience, had him locked up in the missionprison for twenty-four hours, after which he was released with areprimand and warning. 

Pomponio walked out of the prison and to his house without a word. Fora few days he was quiet and attentive to his work, not from fear of theconsequences of doing otherwise (that is not the Indian nature, even ofthose poor natives of Nueva California), but because he was awaitinghis opportunity for inflicting some injury on his persecutors, as he hadcome to think of them. 

One night Father Altimira, who was a light sleeper, awoke, thinking hehad heard a faint noise in the room adjoining his bed-room, which wasused as a store-room for the books, the rich vestments embroidered withgold and silver threads, and the money belonging to the mission. At thistime there was, in the strong iron-bound chest used for the safekeepingof these valuables, a sum of nearly five thousand dollars in gold, andthe Father's first thought on waking, was of this money. Rising on hiselbow, he listened. Hearing nothing, he was about to lie down, whenagain came the sound which had disturbed him, scarcely louder than thechirp of a far-away cricket, and which, but for the utter silence ofthe night, would have been swallowed up in the thick depths of theadobe wall between the two rooms. Springing out of bed, he threw on hisclothes, and without a thought of danger to himself, hurried out to thecloisters and the next room. The night was dark, and he could not makeout anything until he reached the window of the room from which came thenoise. The heavy, wooden shutters were slightly ajar, and through thenarrow upright opening between them, filtered the faint light froma small lantern in the room. With noiseless steps, Father Altimiraapproached the window, and looked through the crack between the twoshutters. There, in front of the ironbound box, knelt Pomponio, busilyat work on the stout padlock that guarded the treasures within. Withall the strength of his powerful arms he filed away at the bar of thepadlock. For a moment the Father, forgot his part in the nocturnalbusiness, and stood, breathless, at the window, fascinated by the quickmotion of the arm back and forth, and the strident sound of the file asit slowly ate its way through the steel. Suddenly Pomponio paused andlooked up, with an expression of fear and hate on his face, dreadful, tosee. Snatching up the lantern from the floor, he dropped it behind thegreat box, and ran to the window. The Father stooped, and crouched closeagainst the wall under the window--for there had not been time to getaway--and waited, hardly daring to breathe. Pomponio carefully openedthe shutters and peered out, but he could distinguish nothing in theintense blackness. After listening a moment and hearing no sound, heclosed the shutters and went back to his work. The priest waited untilhe again heard the screech of the file before he dared to move. Thisaction of Pomponio recalled him to himself, and the responsibilityresting on him regarding the safety of the mission funds. 

With hasty strides, the Father started off to seek assistance. Hehurried to the other end of the row of buildings, some three hundredfeet distant, where lived the Mexican servants of the mission. At thehouse of the carpenter, which was the first he came to, the priestrapped loudly on the door, and called to the occupant to awaken. Juan, the carpenter, answered almost at once, and came to the door. Before hecould ejaculate a word of surprise on seeing the Father, the latter hadtold him the trouble. 

"Arouse, with all haste, the men in the next house, while I go forRafael. Be ready when I come back, " and the Father hurried off. 

Juan lost no time in awakening the two men in the house near-by. A moment after, the Father returned with Rafael, the overseer, andtogether the five men ran swiftly and silently to the scene of thedisturbance. Nearing the window through which Pomponio had forced anentrance, the carpenter stepped up to it softly. The Father's absencehad not been longer than five minutes, and the thief was still hardat work filing the padlock. Muttering to Rafael to follow him, and theother two men to guard the window without, Juan noiselessly pushed openthe heavy shutters, and sprang through the window, Rafael close at hisheels. 

It was not until both men had passed through the window, so quick weretheir movements, that Pomponio became aware he was discovered. Lookingup, he dropped the file, snatched up the lantern and hurled it againstthe wall, shivering it into pieces. Just as the light went out the menseized him. Pomponio fought like a demon, and was fast getting loosefrom their clutches, when Juan shouted to the men outside to come totheir aid; but too late. As they clambered through the window, andsought to lay hold of him, which was not the work of a moment in thedarkness, the neophyte broke from his antagonists and sprang to oneside, avoiding the oncoming couple from the window. While the men wereshouting and swearing, groping this way and that to find their prey, Pomponio slid softly to the window, jumped through it, and set off, athis utmost speed, for the open plain and not far distant forest. Duringthe fray Father Altimira had remained somewhat apart, outside the room. As Pomponio rushed by him, the Father, calling him by name, commandedhim to stop. He paid no attention, but kept on his way, and wasimmediately lost in the darkness. By this time the four men had piledout of the window, falling over each other in their eagerness to pursuethe fast escaping game. 

"It is useless to follow him, " cried the Father. "You could not find himin this gloom. Wait till daylight, and we will hunt for him. We mustsee what damage he has done in the store-room. Stay here. I will get alight. "

The Father went to his chamber, and brought out a lighted lantern, andwith this the men returned to the now, quiet room, entering by the doorwhich the priest unlocked with the key he had taken from its hidingplace in his own room. With the exception of the shattered lantern, andthe file and hammer lying on the floor, everything was in order. Thebar of the padlock was almost filed through--three minutes more, andPomponio would have been away with his booty. As further sleep thatnight was out of the question, the Father and one of the men remained onguard in the room until dawn, the others reconnoitering every half-hourto see that all was quiet around the mission. 

When morning came; the first thing the Father did was to send amessenger to the presidio, four miles distant, with a letter to thecommandant, relating the occurrence of the night, and asking for a guardfor the mission, and a number of men to take up the hunt for the escapedculprit. The soldiers arrived during the day, and at once made activepreparations for finding Pomponio. Beyond knowing the general directionhe had taken in fleeing from the mission, which the padre had noted aswell as he could in the darkness, the hunters were wholly at sea as towhere to look. He might be in any part of the hills and forests whichsurrounded the mission on all sides. To the north he would probably notgo, for that way lay the presidio, and the country was more open andtraveled, as well as terminating, at no great distance, at the water'sedge of the bay. It would be difficult, if not impossible, to find anIndian of Pomponio's intelligence, but the soldiers began their task, searching near, and far, visiting the various rancheras and the room, to rob which he had made such a bold and country for many days, butwithout result. We shall leave them for a while, and see what is becomeof our fugitive. 

As Pomponio passed the Father in his flight from the room, to rob whichhe had made such a bold and nearly successful attempt, he heard thepriest calling him to stop; but what cared he for his master? Had not hebeen fleeing for his liberty and, perhaps, for his life, he would havekilled the Father on the spot: not because he hated his kind teacher, but because in him was embodied the life of the mission, or so it seemedto Pomponio; and his death would have been one blow given toward thefreedom of his kind. But Pomponio's first thought now was for his ownsafety, and he took the shortest course to the forests south of themission. As much at home among the great trees as at the mission, he made his way into their depths with unerring aim, in spite of theEgyptian darkness, until he reached a slight thinning of the trees, where he halted. The spot, mentioned at the beginning of this tale, wasa favorite of Pomponio, and one he visited from time to time, whenhe wished to be free to hold communication with the wild men in theneighborhood. Here he felt reasonably secure from surprise, and here hemeant to spend the days to come. 

There was an old Indian hut in the open space which once had shelteredsome family, and was now abandoned. Pomponio took possession of this. When daylight came, he went in search of the savages in the forest, and on finding them, he recounted his adventure and the consequences tohimself. Among the Indians were the larger number of those who hadsworn allegiance to Pomponio, promising to follow him whenever he shoulddecide for a general extermination of the detested Spaniards. Theywelcomed him warmly, and supplied him with food and everything he neededfor his hut. The Indians not included in his band of followers had, heretofore, looked askance on Pomponio, and had sought to withdraw himfrom the mission into their own wild life. This he had refused to do, contending, with more than usual Indian intelligence, that he would beable to wreak greater harm to the Spanish if connected with the mission. This had been the principal reason for his small following. Now that hehad broken definitely with his old life, they espoused his cause almostto a man, and at last he had the joy of seeing himself at the head ofa very respectable band of nearly fifty determined men. The majority ofthem were for advancing to the enemy without a day's delay, and strikinga decisive blow once for all. But Pomponio refused. 

"No, ", he said. "Wait until the excitement of last night dies away; thenwe shall stand a better chance of winning. But now the mission will beon guard, and we should be defeated. "

This cogent reasoning prevailed, but the hotheaded youths grumbled muchand long at the delay. 

Pomponio, himself, chafed at their enforced inaction, necessary thoughhe knew it to be. Then another thing that troubled him was the thoughtof his wife. Would they think she knew of his attempt that night, andpunish her? He had told her nothing, but whether she could make theFather believe it, was another matter. Much he wished he could have somecommunication with her, and tell her where he was, and beg her to joinhim. But it was too dangerous. Without a doubt she was watched closely, if she were not actually imprisoned. So he gave up all thought of it. 

The days dragged slowly along for Pomponio and his companions. Severaltimes during the following two weeks he heard reports of the doingsof the mission from different ones of the Indians who went thithertoreconnoitre. From these he learned that the soldiers were still keptthere, and while they remained on guard, nothing could be done. OncePomponio stole up to the more distant houses of the mission in thegathering dusk of approaching night. He heard the chant of the fathersand their servants at their evening devotions. All was calm and quiet, and he was just about to risk the attempt to go to his old home, inthe hope of seeing Rosa, when a soldier came into view from behindthe church. Pomponio crouched down behind a shrub near which he wasstanding, and waited until the man disappeared again from sight inhis round of the buildings. Then noiselessly he crawled away to hiscompanions in the forest. 

It was about two weeks after Pomponio's flight. He had been holding acouncil of war with his followers, and had told them that, at last, thetime was come to strike for liberty. The soldiers at the mission hadnot been seen for some days, and it was thought they had returned to thepresidio. What a shout of exultation went up from the Indians! Now thetime was at hand, the time they had looked forward to for so long, when, at one single blow, they hoped to free themselves from their hatedoppressors. Vain hope! Had they forgotten already what was the fate of asimilar uprising in the southern missions only a few months before? Buteach one learns from his own experience. The Indian is sanguine, andhopes to succeed where others have failed, or carries out his purposes, desperately and without hope, to end in certain failure. This is not anIndian trait exclusively; it is a question of the weak overpowered bythe strong, and has shown itself in all parts of the earth and inevery race of mankind. See how well treated were the Indians of NuevaCalifornia by their conquerors, mild, humane and devoted to theirinterests, having given up home and friends to isolate themselves in awild new country, solely to bestow on these gentiles the blessingsof civilization and, above all, the gift of Christ's religion. We maywonder why they were not willing and glad to follow the fathers', almostwithout exception, gentle guidance. But the one thing necessary to makeit a complete success was wanting--freedom. That was the keystone onwhich all depended: lacking that, the whole mission system was, by justso much, a failure. 

Pomponio was returning to his hut late that day after telling hisfollowers to hold themselves in readiness for marching on to the missionon the nightfall of the morrow. He had nearly reached his habitation, and was walking slowly and with downcast head, buried deep in thoughtover the approaching conflict which he had wished for so long. Pomponiosaw clearly that the task before him and his band was a difficult one. He was not blind to the fact that, even should they succeed at thismission, there would be left in the land twenty others, each oneof which would give aid in quelling a revolt at San Francisco, andpunishing the insurgents. But Pomponio was in a desperate mood. Hepreferred failure and death to his life at the mission, and he knewhis present life as a fugitive could not last; he would certainly becaptured sooner or later. 

He walked slowly on. Had not he been so absorbed in thought of thecrisis of his life, on the brink of which he stood, the indications ofsomething unusual and foreboding would have arrested his attention. A rustling among the leaves and brush of the undergrowth told of thepresence of some animated thing, human or brute. Once a gleam, asof some highly burnished metal flashing in the sun, was to bedetected--that surely was no animal! But Pomponio walked on obliviousto these signs which, at any other time, he would have been the firstto notice. He was within a few yards of the hut, and on the edge of theclearing, when he heard a crackling among the branches underfoot, anda rushing toward him. One glance was enough. Three soldiers, armed withmuskets, were upon him, one on each side, the third in front. Theywere close to him before he was aware of their presence, and escape wasimpossible, for he was seized and his arms bound behind him almost assoon as he knew he was captured. 

"Aha! we have you at last, " cried the leader. "You thought we could notfind you out here, hiding in the forest. And I must say it has been hardenough and taken long enough. But we have you safe now, you rascal. "

Pomponio said not a word. From the first, so soon as he saw he washelpless, he submitted quietly, and suffered the soldiers to bind hisarms with the leather thong they had brought with them. Had his Indianfollowers been within sound of his voice, he would have shouted tothem to come, not to rescue him--that could not have been done, forthe soldiers, at the instant of his call and the answering cries of theIndians, would have shot him dead--but to kill the soldiers. The Indianswere too far distant for this. How the soldiers had escaped the savageswas a mystery. They must have been at his hut soon after his leaving itthat morning, and kept watch for the return of its inmate, thinking itmight be Pomponio himself, or some one who would lead to the discoveryof his whereabouts. Only in this way could they have missed the Indiansroaming in the forest that day, as they made their preparations for theeventful morrow. 

"Now, my man, off to the presidio, " said the leader, after they hadfinished binding Pomponio's arms securely. "We have no time to lose;the sun is low in the west, and will be set long before we get there. Sostep lively all. "

The soldiers picked up their muskets, and started off quickly in thedirection of the mission, Pomponio guarded by a man on each side, grasping his pinioned arms. Alas! Was this the end of his long, longplanning; was this the outcome of the insurrection which was to havebeen the prelude to a glorious victory, that he should have been caughtthrough his own carelessness and carried off ignominiously to prison?Pomponio could have sacrificed his life gladly for the cause he had somuch at heart; but to be captured before the blow for liberty had beenstruck was unbearable. He had been the prime mover in planning therevolt, and well he knew his capture sounded the knell, for no one couldtake his place successfully as leader. 

The soldiers hurried their prisoner forward almost on the run, partlybecause it was so late, and they had a long walk before them, partlyfrom fear of encountering some of the savages they knew were in theforest. However, they were not molested, and reached the mission, lyingon their way, as the last bit of sunset color faded away on the horizon. They delayed only long enough to relate the circumstance of the capture, and to get two of the soldiers, acting as guard at the mission, toaccompany them to the presidio. Pomponio did not see the Father, who wasengaged with the sick in the hospital, and he was glad. After a stop, ofa few minutes, they again took up their march, and reached the presidioa little later. Here the commandant of the garrison, after having heardthe tale of the leader, and taken a look at Pomponio, ordered him to bechained to the wall in a room of the prison. This was done. The chainswere fastened around his ankles; his arms were unbound, and he was leftto solitude and darkness. 

Poor savage captive! Alone, abandoned, and chained to the wall of thelittle cell he was in, so closely that he could barely reach thelow, rough bench on which to sit. But Pomponio could have borne hisimprisonment patiently, even cheerfully, had the rebellion only takenplace, successfully or not. That was the maddening thought. He buriedhis head in his hands. Well he knew that all hope was over. Even thoughhe might manage to escape, he would find the Indians dispersed andin hiding, too frightened at the effect his capture might have on theSpaniards, and the result to themselves. All was over. He had nothingfarther to live for. Even the thought of Rosa failed to rouse him, for he knew he had been too wicked in the eyes of the fathers to bepermitted to see her again--whether in prison or liberated, if such athing could have been dreamed of, she was dead to him. 

Yet the love of life is implanted too deeply in the human breast to diebefore life itself deserts our mortal body. As Pomponio crouched there, bound and forsaken, a passionate feeling of revolt at his doom arosewithin him. Was he to be killed; must he leave this earth, beautifulto him even when in the lowest depths of misery, and that, too, at thecommand of his enemies, who had stolen his country and made him and hiskindred slaves? They should not take his life, the only thing they hadleft him. And with the wish came into his mind a plan of escape thatmade him start. 

When the soldiers arrested and imprisoned Pomponio, they neglectedto search him, thinking, no doubt, that by no possible means could heescape from them, chained as securely as if to the solid rock itself. Pomponio had, stuck in his belt underneath his shirt, a hunting-knife, his trusty weapon and constant companion. No one who has not lived inthe wilderness can have any idea of the value of the hunting-knife. Theuses to which it can be put are countless. It is pocket-knife, scissors, hatchet, dagger, and all cutting and stabbing instruments in one; itwill, moreover, take the place of revolver and rifle on many occasions, and has one immense advantage over them--its utter silence. It is apowerful, and, at need, murderous weapon. 

Pomponio pulled out his knife from its leather sheath and examined itby touch, for it was too dark to see it. He felt carefully of the blade;yes, it was, sharp as a razor, and would do the work wanted of it. Hegrasped it nervously, but firmly, in his right hand. Then he paused. Wasit, after all, worth the pain he must suffer; had life anything in storefor him in recompense for what he must endure? He could not expect to beagain a power among his brethren. At the best he would be the mere wreckof what he had, till now, been to his followers. They might look to himfor counsel and advice: as a leader he could be of no more use. Again, admitting he had the courage to do the deed, could his strength hold outuntil he reached a place of safety? Suppose he fell helpless on the way;he would be found and brought back. Yet to do nothing was to receivecertain death, or what, to Pomponio, with his Indian pride, was worse, a public whipping, such as he had heard was given sometimes for graveoffenses; and afterward such humiliation in his life of bondage as wasnot to be borne. No, anything to free himself out of the hands of hispersecutors. He hesitated no longer. 

Clutching the knife, he stooped. Taking firm hold of his foot, as itrested on the ground, with his left hand, he poised the edge of theknife on his heel, back of the iron ring; then, with all his strength, he gave one quick, sharp cut downward and severed the prominence of theheel, removing the greater part of the os calcis. Not a sound passed hislips. Letting fall the knife, he pushed the ring down over the wound andthe length of his foot. One foot was free, but only one; he was still asmuch a prisoner as before. Could he bear the torture again?

He gave himself no time to think, but picking up the knife, repeated, with convulsive strength, the operation on his other foot. With a lowmoan, wrung from him by the double agony, he leaned, faint and deathlysick, against the wall. In this position he remained for many minutes, until, above the pain, arose the thought that he was not yet free. 

The small window of the prison was within easy reach from the floor, and it would have been the work of an instant to vault through it, hadPomponio not been disabled by the ugly wounds he had inflicted uponhimself. With a sigh he stood up slowly on his maimed feet. Think of thepower of will of the poor Indian, his love of life, and, more than hislove of life, his hatred of his oppressors, to go through the agony eachmovement caused him! He crept up to the window, laid hold of the sill, and, with his hands, drew himself up to, and through it, the bloodspouting from his wounds at every inch of progress. Lowering himselffrom the window, he lay down on the ground to gather a little strengthfor flight. But first he must bind up his feet, in order that his bloodmight not betray whither he went. Taking off his cotton shirt, he toreit in half, and wrapped each foot in a piece. The touch of the cloth tohis wounds was like fire; but by this time his nerves were benumbed tosuch a degree that he scarcely noticed it. 

Going on hands and knees, he started to creep over the distance lyingbetween him and the fringe of trees near the presidio. There was a goodhalf-mile, and Pomponio feared he could not cover it. Four times he fellto the ground unconscious, four times he revived and pushed on with allthe strength he could muster. Fortunately he had started early in thenight, for he needed every minute of the darkness. Foot after foot, yard after yard, he crept along, the presidio and the other buildingsreceding in the increasing distance behind him, while the welcome woodsand hills, his refuge, loomed up, higher and darker, as he neared them. At last he reached the shelter of the trees, his friends, as the firstfaint streaks of the dawn began to brighten in the east. Only a littletime remained before the hue and cry would begin, and he must find aplace of concealment before then, else he were lost. Pomponio knew everypart of the forests for miles around; and after getting under coverof them, he turned at a slight angle toward the southwest, and madestraight for a cave he had once visited when hunting for a bear. Heremembered it was concealed by a thick tangled mass of bushes and youngtrees, hiding it so effectually that discovery was well nigh impossible. In pursuing the bear, Pomponio had tracked it to the cave which it hadentered, and this it was that gave him the secret. Summoning all hisremaining strength for a last supreme effort, he dragged himself onslowly and painfully. It was not far, and soon he recognized the clumpof bushes that shaded the entrance; and none too soon, for just beforereaching it, he heard a musket shot in the direction of the presidio. His flight was discovered. But he was safe, for the present, at least;and crouching down in the depths of the dark cave, kind nature once morecame to his relief, and he knew no more. 

Great was the excitement at the presidio when Pomponio's escape wasdiscovered. The soldiers, on going past the place on their morningrounds, saw the bloody tracks of the prisoner's descent on the wallunder the window. An instant investigation was made, and the truthof the awful manner in which Pomponio had accomplished his evasiondisclosed. Stupefied, the commandant and his men gazed at, the traces ofthe deed, the pools of half-dried dark blood and the two pieces of bone, eloquent of the fortitude he must have possessed, the desperation he wasin, to perpetrate such an act. 

Might not it be thought that so astonishing a hardihood would haveawakened a feeling of admiration and pity for the unfortunate being?So heroic a deed would have elicited praise to rend the skies from thepeoples of antiquity(2), and the story of Pomponio would have passeddown from generation to generation as that of one of their brave men. But, alas! in the breasts of the men with whom Pomponio had to deal, nosuch sentiment of ruth was raised. On the contrary, they were rousedto an even greater violence of hatred and anger toward the poor savage. Wild with rage that his prisoner, whom he had hunted for so long, shouldhave escaped when securely bound, the commandant sent out his men insquads of four and five to scour the woods and find their prey. "He mustand shall be found, " he said. 

The search was instituted forthwith. For days, weeks and months, theyhunted for Pomponio, but not a trace of him was found. Gradually, astime went on, the search was given up, for the intense excitement rousedby his flight died out from want of fresh fuel to feed upon, and, inaddition, the soldiers were required for other more immediate needs;so that, before a year was past after his escape, all interest in thesubject ceased, and Pomponio was seldom thought of, or his name spoken, except among those of the Indians to whom he and his deed were ever animpulse toward insubordination. 

And what was Pomponio doing? At first from necessity, on account of hiswounded feet, and afterward so long as the soldiers kept up a vigoroussearch for him, he made the cave, in which he had taken refuge, hishome. All that day, following the night of his escape, he lay in thecave, more dead than alive, caring for nothing, wishing, even, he mightdie, now he was out of the grasp of his enemies. But the next morningthe pangs of hunger awakened him to life and its realities. Nearly twodays were passed since he had had a morsel to eat. He was too weak to goin search of food, and his only help must come from making his presenceknown to some of the Indians who were scattered in the forest. Pomponiocrawled to the opening, and out beyond the clump of bushes hiding it, with the greatest caution. Slowly and painfully he reconnoitered inevery direction--no trace or sound of the soldiers. Picking out avantage point, from which he had a survey among the trees of severalhundred feet radius, he took up his watch, keeping a careful lookoutfor the soldiers, as well as for any of his kindred who might chanceto wander thither. Here he passed the day, his little strength slowlyleaving him as the hours went by, until, near evening, he felt thatunless help came before the darkness fell, he could not survive thenight. Almost past caring whether the soldiers found him, he lay backagainst a little heap of leaves he had scooped together, giving himselfup to the numb, delicious feeling of the last sleep--no more to befeared and fought against--when his ear caught the sound of steps, muffled by the leaves of the undergrowth carpeting the ground. Hestarted; life for an instant returned to him. Did that portend theapproach of the soldiers, or was it some friendly Indian roaming theforest for game, and now on his return home? He gazed into the obscurityof the approaching night, lying back too weak to move, though it werehis enemies come to take him again. But his fear was vain. It was anIndian boy, not more than fifteen years old, on the way to his tribe. Atsight of him Pomponio was rejoiced, for the nearing Indian belonged tohis own tribe, and but for his extreme youth would have been includedamong Pomponio's followers in the contemplated revolt. 

His eyes lighted up with the fire of life. He raised himself on anelbow, and when the Indian was within a few yards of him, and about toturn aside to reenter the thicker woods beyond, Pomponio called to him. His voice was hardly above a whisper, but it was sufficient. The Indianheard, and, turned quickly. Seeing the form of a man, he started, andwas on the point of springing away into the forest, when Pomponio spoke, this time in a louder and stronger tone:

"Help me Taxlipu, I--am nearly dead. I am Pomponio. "

"Pomponio!" almost shrieked the boy. "It cannot be. I saw Pomponiocarried away and locked up at the presidio, and an Indian told me he hadbeen chained fast to the wall of his prison cell. "

The boy came nearer as he said this, but he held himself ready to fleeat the least movement of the figure lying on the ground. "Surely it ishis spirit, " he said to himself, "for it is, indeed, the countenance ofPomponio. "

But the wounded man spoke again: "I am Pomponio. I cut myself loose fromthe chains that bound me, and escaped from my prison. Give me a littlewater, else I die, " and again he lost consciousness. 

But, he was saved. Taxlipu came close, and gazed earnestly at the darkupturned face. Yes, that was Pomponio. He sprang away and dashed madlyinto the forest, and on to the settlement of the Indians, for help. Herehe found a number of Pomponio's followers together, talking sadly of themishap to their chief. Taxlipu burst in on them with the startling newsthat Pomponio had escaped and was now in the forest nearly dead. Themen sprang up, telling the boy to lead them to the place. But beforestarting, one of the Indians went to a hut close by, and brought outwith him part of a rabbit, freshly cooked, and an olla of water. Withthese, the company set off on the run, led by Taxlipu. It was only a fewminutes before they reached the spot where Pomponio lay as one dead. TheIndian with the water knelt down by his side, and poured some drops intohis mouth. After a short while, during which the dose was repeated asoften as it was swallowed, Pomponio opened his eyes, drawing a heavysigh. 

Tenderly and reverently they cared for him. At his request they bore himinto the cave where he would be safe from the sight of any chance partyfrom the presidio hunting for him, and here they nursed him back to lifeand strength. It was many days before he recovered from the effects ofthe great loss of blood he had suffered; many more before the woundsin his feet healed. From the ill-usage to which he had subjected them, inflammation set in, and at one time great fear was felt that he couldnot survive; but his strong constitution prevailed. Yet after all hewould have died gladly, for he was a helpless cripple from that day, hobbling around only with the aid of rude crutches. 

His comrades vied with each other in their attentions to the sickleader, and after he had recovered from the fever and weakness, theyfurnished him with all the necessaries of life which he was unable toobtain by his own efforts. After a few months in the cave, Pomponio leftit to be with the Indians in the forest near the mission; but he wascareful to keep away from the neighborhood of the scene of his capture, judging rightly that that place would be under surveillance at any timeof uneasiness. However, there was no thought of farther insurrection. Their spirit had been broken with Pomponio's capture, for a long time, at any rate. But although they had abandoned all idea of a generaluprising, they did everything in their power to annoy and harass theirenemies: stealing their horses and cattle and sheep; devastating theircrops of wheat and grapes, and, once or twice, setting fire to anoutlying mission house or granary. Their lofty idea of freedom fromservitude had degenerated thus into a system of petty depredation. 

Here, among his friends, Pomponio passed the days quietly and sadly, caring for nothing, and going through mechanically the routine ofeach day. His spirit was crushed--not so much from the effects of histreatment, but because his long thought of, long desired, purpose wascome to naught. He paid but little attention to the affairs of thoseabout him. They went and came, carried on their game of life, rousing inhim only a gleam of interest. Thus three years passed. 

One day, in the early spring, the Indians went away on a foragingexpedition, leaving Pomponio alone in his hut. It had been a warm, sunny day, and in the afternoon Pomponio dragged himself to a littlemoss-covered bank under the trees, on which he stretched himself, and, after a short time, he fell asleep. All was quiet. Not a sound was to beheard save the insects humming drowsily in the heated air, and, now andthen, the whirr of an oriole as it flew swiftly past, lighting up witha glint of gold the shadows among the trees. The oriole is sunlightincarnate. 

But this quiet scene was to be broken. The sound of branches snappingbeneath the tread of some heavy foot was heard. It drew near thesecluded spot; then the form of a man, carrying a musket, could bediscerned, making his way, to the glade. He reached the edge of theclearing, when he espied the sleeping Indian, lying with his faceturned from him. He halted instantly. Was it an Indian belonging to themission, and playing truant, or one of the savages of the forests, fromwhom the mission had suffered so much during the last three years? Hemust find out. Creeping so slowly and carefully that not a sound washeard again from his feet among the plants, he passed around the edge ofthe glade to a point nearly opposite, in order to get a more direct viewof the sleeping man. What a diabolical expression of alternate hateand triumph passed over his countenance! Here was the scoundrel who hadescaped from the presidio. After three years, when hope of ever findinghim again had died out, when, except for the depredations continuallytaking place at the mission and presidio, every one would have declaredPomponio was dead of the wounds he had inflicted on himself, that he, Pablo, the youngest soldier at the presidio, when out hunting, and withno thought of enemies near, should find the miscreant, asleep and in hispower! This would advance him in the good graces of the commandant. 

There was no time to lose. Pomponio might awake at any moment; hisfriends in the forest might return on the instant. He raised his musketand took long and steady aim at the Indian. There was a report thatraised the echoes. With lightning speed the soldier reloaded, and thencautiously drew nearer; but there was no need of apprehension fromPomponio. He was dead--shot through the heart. The soldier gazed at theinanimate form, at the bullet-hole in his breast, from which the bloodwas trickling, and at the poor mutilated feet. Did a glimmer of pitystir in his heart? It were hard to say. Yet, as he stood there lookingdown at his work, perhaps there was a little feeling of sorrow for thefate of his fellow man, coupled with a touch of shame at his own unmanlyact in thus murdering his sleeping foe, criminal though he was, andrichly deserving death. But he had scant time for reflection. The noiseof men approaching was heard in the forest. Pomponio's friends would behere in an instant. He must go at once. He slipped away among the treesin the direction from which he had come, and vanished. A moment laterfour Indians appeared at the point where the soldier had stood when hefired. Their first glance at Pomponio revealed to them the meaning ofthe shot they had heard. 

Pomponio was buried that night, secretly and in profound silence. Hiscomrades, determined his enemies should never find his grave and body, bore it into the deepest recesses of the forest, and there interred it, afterward removing all trace of any disturbance of the earth coveringit. There they left him, at rest, his little part in life's drama ended. 

Pablo's story of his killing Pomponio was not believed when he told itat the mission and the presidio. No one, however, could contradict him, and as time went on, and nothing farther was heard of the neophyte, andthe marauding at the mission became less, until it ceased altogether, his assertion came, in time, to be regarded as the true account ofPomponio's death. 

Note. --The writer has taken the liberty of altering the real facts ofPomponio's end. He was captured by a party of four soldiers, tried bycourt martial at Monterey, in February, and shot, about September, 1824. The period covered by the story, also, has been changed to threeyears later than the actual time of occurrence. It is surprising thatBancroft, from whose history the facts in this note are taken, does notmention Captain Duhaut-Cilly who, in his Voyage autour du Monde, Vol. II, Chap. XI, recounts Pomponio's self-mutilation in order to effecthis escape. As Pomponio's execution occurred only three years beforeDuhaut-Cilly's visit, the French captain must have learned his factswith a close approach to accuracy, and it seems safe to take themwithout reserve. Bancroft affects to regard the main fact in this storywith some incredulity, and limits the victim's manacles to one ankleonly. Vide Bancroft: History of California, Vol. II, pp. 537-38. 

(2) "Un trait que les Anciens auraient divinisa. " Duhaut-Cilly. 

Here end the Stories of the Old Missions of California as told byCharles Franklin Carter, decorated by William H. Wilke and put into bookform by Paul Elder and Company at their Tomoye Press, San Francisco, under the careful direction of Ricardo J. Orozco, in the month ofNovember, Nineteen Hundred and Seventeen.