The "pathfinder" sees the decadence of priestly influence. Twenty-one flourishing missions have been secularized by Governor Hijar since 1834. Now the superior coast tribes are scattered, and the civilizing work since 1769 is all lost to human progress. In glowing words Padre Francisco tells of idle farms, confiscated flocks, and ruined works of utility. Beautiful San Luis Rey is crumbling to decay. Its bells hang silent. The olive and vine scatter their neglected fruits. The Padres are driven off to Mexico. The pious fund is in profane coffers. San Juan Capistrano shines out a lonely ruin in the southern moonlight. The oranges of San Gabriel now feed only the fox and coyote. Civil dissension and wars of ambitious leaders follow the seizure of the missions. Strangers have pillaged the religious settlements. All is relapsing into savagery. In a few stations, like Monterey, Santa Clara, Santa Barbara, and Yerba Buena, a lonely shepherd watches a diminished flock; but the grand mission system is ruined.
"Does not the Government need the missions?" queries Maxime.
"Ah! my son, Sonoma and San Rafael are kept up to watch the Russians at Fort Ross. Sutter menaces us at New Helvetia. I can see the little cloud of the future, which will break one day in storm."
"Whence comes it, father?" queries the prisoner.
"From the United States," replies the padre. "Our whole political system is paralyzed. The Americans have supported the Texans in battle. That splendid land is dropping away from Mexico. We will lose this glorious land, and our beloved flag will go down forever. The Government sleeps, and the people will be ruined. There are two thousand scattered foreigners here to-day. They gain daily: we weaken hourly. When your people in numbers follow such leaders as your gallant captain over the plains, we will lose this land also."
The padre sighed. His years of hard endeavor are wasted, the fruits are wanting, his labor is vain.
"Why is not your Government more vigorous?" says the stranger.
"My son, our pastoral life builds up no resources of this great land. The young men will not work; they only ride around. Flocks and herds alone will not develop this paradise. The distance from Mexico has broken the force of the laws. In fifty-five years of Spanish rule and twenty-three more of Mexican, we have had twenty-two different rulers. The old families have lost their loyalty, and they now fight each other for supremacy. All is discord and confusion in Alta California."
"And the result?" questions Maxime.
"Either England or the United States will sweep us off forever," mourns the padre. He addresses himself to his beads. Bright sunlight wakes Maxime with the birds. The matin bell rings out. He rises refreshed by the father's hospitality.
During the day Valois measures the generosity of Padre Francisco. A few treasured books enable Maxime to amuse himself. As yet he dares not venture out of the garden.
The sound of clattering hoofs causes the prisoner to drop his volume. He sits enjoying a flask of ripe claret, for he is broken down and needs recruiting.
A courier spurs his foam-covered horse up to the Commandante's porch. Panting and staggering, the poor beast shows the abuse of a merciless rider. The messenger's heels are adorned with two inch spiked wheels, bloody with spurring the jaded beast.
Peace or war? Maxime's heart beats violently. He prudently withdraws. The wild soldiery gather on the plaza. His guards are there with his own weapons, proudly displayed.
The Southerner chafes in helplessness. Could he but have his own horse and those weapons, he would meet any two of them in the open. They are now clamoring against the Gringos. Soon the courier reappears. All is bustle and shouting. Far away, on the rich knolls, Maxime sees fleet riders gathering up the horses nearest the ranch. When Padre Francisco arrives from his morning lessons, a troop of vaqueros are arrayed on the plaza.
"The news?" eagerly queries Maxime.
"Thanks be to God!" says the padre, "Fremont has broken camp after five days' stay at the Hawk's Peak. He is moving north. There has been skirmishing, but no battle. Don Miguel is sending a company to watch their march, and will attack if they menace any of our sentinels. The Americans may, however, go into Oregon, or back over the mountains. The Commandante will keep his main force in the valley. If they turn back, he will dispute their passage. You will be kept here."
Valois gazes on the departure. He takes an informal adieu of those trusty weapons which have been with him in so many scenes of danger.
The last files sweep down the trail. Lagunitas Lake smiles peacefully from its bowers. The war clouds have rolled north.
As days glide by, the priest and his youthful charge grow into each other's hearts. Padre Francisco is young enough still to have some flowers of memory blossoming over the stone walls of his indomitable heart. Maxime learns the story of his early life. He listens to the padre's romantic recitals of the different lands he has strayed over. Couriers arrive daily with news of Fremont's whirling march northward. The explorer travels like a Cossack in simplicity. He rides with the sweep of the old Tartars. Cool, wary and resolute, the "Pathfinder" manoeuvres to baffle clumsy Castro. He may yet elude his pursuers, or cut his way out.
Don Miguel steadily refuses to see Maxime. Through the padre, Maxime receives any necessary messages or questions.
The Louisianian learns that all the foreigners are in commotion. Peralta's spies bring rumors of war vessels expected, both English and American.
In New Helvetia, in Sonoma, at Monterey, and in Yerba Buena, guided by the most resolute, the aliens are quietly arming; they are secretly organizing.
March wears away into April. The breath of May is wafted down in spicy odors from the forests.
Fremont is away hiding where the great Sacramento River mountains break into the gorgeous canyons of its headwaters. Will he never turn?
The padre, now unreservedly friendly, tells Maxime that Castro fears to attack Fremont in the open field. He has sent Indian runners to stir up the wild Klamath, Snake River, and Oregon Indians against the Americans. This is serious. Should the explorers receive a check there, they would retreat; then the guerillas would cut them off easily.
Padre Francisco fears for the result. He tells Maxime that bands of fierce vaqueros are riding the roads; they have already butchered straggling foreigners. A general war of extermination may sweep from Sonoma to San Diego.
Valois' weary eyes have roved from mountain to valley for many days. Will he ever regain his liberty? A few morning walks with the padre, and a stroll by the waters of Lagunitas, are his only liberties.
The priest is busy daily with the instruction of little Dolores. The child's sweet, dancing eyes belie her mournful name. Valois has passed quiet Donna Juanita often in the garden walks. A light bending of her head is her only answer to the young man's respectful salutation. She, too, fears and distrusts all Americans.
The roses have faded from her cheeks too early. It is the hard lot of the California lady. Though wealth of lands in broad leagues dotted with thousands of cattle, horses, and sheep is hers, this daughter of an old feudal house has dreamed away a lonely life. It is devoid of all social pleasures since she became the first lady of Lagunitas.
Colorless and sad is her daily life. Denied society by her isolation, she is yet too proud to associate with her women dependants.
Her lord is away often in the field. His days are spent galloping over his broad domains. There is no intellectual life, no change of day and day. The years have silently buried themselves, with no crown of happy memories. She left her merry home at the Alameda shore of the great bay to be the lonely lady of this distant domain. Her narrow nature has settled into imitative and mechanical devotion, a sad, cold faith.
Youthful lack of education has not