t that was
all. The bull would not down! There would be no coliar! He merely ran
on--the brute! the beast!--jerking his horns defiantly, putting down
his head, nearly dragging Rafael from the saddle. But no! but no!
Rafael has risen in his saddle, he has forced his mustang the harder,
he is almost level with the bull--he has passed! He gives a great jerk,
dragging the bull to his knees, then another, and the bull is on his
side and rolling over and over down the hill, Rafael following fast,
slackening his lariat. The boys now cheer wildly, although danger is
not over--yes, in another moment it is, and Rafael, smiling
complacently, is at the foot of the hill, disengaging the humbled bull.

"Bravo!" said a voice from behind the horses. All turned with a start.
It was the priest. "Coliar was never better done," he added graciously;
and Rafael felt that the day was his.

The priest had ridden up unnoted in the tense excitement of the last
few moments. He sat a big powerful horse, and his bearing was as
military as that of the two great generals of the Californias, Castro
and Vallejo.

As the boys, congratulations and modest acknowledgement over, were
making for home and breakfast, the priest pressed his horse close to
Roldan's. "I interested you much at the race yesterday, Don Roldan," he
said, with a good-humoured smile. "Why was that?"

Roldan was not often embarrassed, but he was so taken aback at the
abrupt sally he forgot to be flattered that the priest had evidently
thought it worth while to inquire his name; and stammered: "I--well,
you see, my father, you are not like other priests." Which was not
undiplomatic.

The priest smiled, this time with a faint flush of unmistakable
pleasure. "You are right, my son, I am not as other priests in this
wilderness. Would to Heaven I were, or--"

"Or that you were in Spain?" Roldan could not resist saying, then
caught his breath at his temerity.

The priest turned about and faced him squarely. "Yes," he said
deliberately, "and that I were a cardinal of Rome. Such words I have
never uttered to mortal before; but if I am not as other men, neither
are you as other lads. Some day you will be a Castro or an Alvarado; it
is written in your face. Perhaps something more, for changes may come
and your opportunities be greater. But I--I am no longer young; there
is no hope in California for me."

"Why do you not return to Spain?"

"I have written. They will not answer. In my y