nes that looked like ditches on the dead level
of the tawny fields; the shadows of slowly moving cattle were mingling
with their own silhouettes, and becoming more and more grotesque. A keen
wind rising in the hills was already creeping from the canada as from
the mouth of a funnel, and sweeping the plains. Antonio had forgathered
with the servants, had pinched the ears of the maids, had partaken of
aguardiente, had saddled the mules,--Antonio was becoming impatient.

And then a singular commotion disturbed the peaceful monotony of the
patriarchal household of Don Juan Briones. The stagnant courtyard was
suddenly alive with peons and servants, running hither and thither. The
alleys and gardens were filled with retainers. A confusion of questions,
orders, and outcrys rent the air, the plains shook with the galloping of
a dozen horsemen. For the acolyte Francisco, of the Mission San Carmel,
had disappeared and vanished, and from that day the hacienda of Don Juan
Briones knew him no more.

CHAPTER III

When Father Pedro saw the yellow mules vanish under the low branches
of the oaks beside the little graveyard, caught the last glitter of the
morning sun on Pinto's shining headstall, and heard the last tinkle of
Antonio's spurs, something very like a mundane sigh escaped him. To
the simple wonder of the majority of early worshipers--the half-breed
converts who rigorously attended the spiritual ministrations of the
Mission, and ate the temporal provisions of the reverend fathers--he
deputed the functions of the first mass to a coadjutor, and, breviary in
hand, sought the orchard of venerable pear trees. Whether there was
any occult sympathy in his reflections with the contemplation of their
gnarled, twisted, gouty, and knotty limbs, still bearing gracious and
goodly fruit, I know not, but it was his private retreat, and under one
of the most rheumatic and misshapen trunks there was a rude seat. Here
Father Pedro sank, his face towards the mountain wall between him and
the invisible sea. The relentless, dry, practical Californian sunlight
falling on his face grimly pointed out a night of vigil and suffering.
The snuffy yellow of his eyes was injected yet burning, his temples were
ridged and veined like a tobacco leaf; the odor of desiccation which
his garments always exhaled was hot and feverish, as if the fire had
suddenly awakened among the ashes.

Of what was Father Pedro thinking?

He was thinking of his youth