The Little Lady of Lagunitas | Page 8

the
evening service ends.
Miguel's heart sinks while he thinks of the missions. He bows in prayer.
Neglected vineyards and general decay reign over the deserted mission
lands.
It is years since Hijar scattered the missions, He paralyzed the work of
the Padres. Already Santa Clara's gardens are wasted. Snarling coyotes
prowl to the very walls of the enclosures left to the Padres.
Priest and acolytes quit the altar. Miguel sadly leaves the church. Over
a white stone on the sward his foot pauses. There rests one of his best
friends--Padre Pacheco--passed beyond these earthly troubles to eternal
rest and peace. The mandate of persecution can never drive away that
dead shepherd. He rests with his flock around him.
Hijar seized upon the acres of the Church. He came down like the
feudal barons in England. Ghostly memories cling yet around these old
missions.
"When the lord of the hill, Amundeville, Made Norman church his prey,

And expelled the friars, one friar still Would not be driven away."
So here the sacred glebe was held by a faithful sentinel. His gravestone
flashed a white protest against violence. In the struggle between sword
and cowl, the first victory is with the sword; not always the last. Time
has its revenges.
Padre Hinojosa, the incumbent, welcomes the Captain. There is cheer
for the travellers. Well-crusted bottles of mission claret await them.
The tired riders seek the early repose of primitive communities.
Beside the fire (for the fog sweeps coldly over the Coast Range) the
priest and his guest exchange confidences. Captain Peralta is an official
bulletin. The other priest is summoned away to a dying penitent. The
halls of the once crowded residence of the clergy re-echo strangely the
footsteps of the few servants.
By the embers the man of the sword and he of the gown lament these
days. They are pregnant with trouble. The directing influence of the
Padres is now absent. Peralta confides to Hinojosa that jealousy and
intrigue will soon breed civil warfare. Micheltorrena is now conspiring
against Alvarado. Peralta seeks a secluded home in the forests of
Mariposa. He desires to gain a stronghold where he can elude both
domestic and foreign foes.
"Don Miguel," the padre begins, "in our records we have notes of a
Philippine galleon, the SAN AUGUSTIN, laden with the spoils of the
East. She was washed ashore in 1579, tempest tossed at the Golden
Gate. Viscaino found this wreck in 1602. Now I have studied much. I
feel that the Americans will gradually work west, overland, and will
rule us. Our brothers destroyed the missions. They would have
Christianized the patient Indians, teaching them industries. Books tell
me even the Apaches were peaceful till the Spanish soldiers attacked
them. Now from their hills they defy the whole Mexican army." The
good priest sighed. "Our work is ruined. I shall lay my bones here, but I
see the trade of the East following that lonely wrecked galleon, and a
young people growing up. The Dons will go." Bestowing a blessing on
his guest, the padre sought his breviary. Priest and soldier slept in quiet.

To-day the old padre's vision is realized. The treasures of the East pour
into the Golden Gate. His simple heart would have been happy to know
that thousands of Catholics pause reverently at his tomb covered with
the roses of Santa Clara.
CHAPTER II.
AT THE PRESIDIO OF SAN FRANCISCO.---WEDDING CHIMES
FROM THE MISSION DOLORES.---LAGUNITAS RANCHO.

Golden lances pierced the haze over the hills, waking the padre betimes
next morning. Already the sacristan was ringing his call.
The caballeros were kneeling when the Indian choir raised the chants.
When mass ended, the "mozos" scoured the potrero, driving in the
chargers. Commandante Peralta lingered a half hour at the priest's
house. There, the flowers bloom in a natural tangle.
The quadrangle is deserted; while the soldier lingers, the priest runs
over the broken chain of missions. He recounts the losses of Mother
Church---seventeen missions in Lower California, twenty-one all told
in Alta California, with all their riches confiscated. The "pious
fund"--monument of the faithful dead--swept into the Mexican coffers.
The struggle of intellect against political greed looks hopeless.
The friends sadly exchange fears. The bridegroom reminds the priest
that shelter will be always his at the new rancho.
Peralta's plunging roan frets now in the "paseo." After a blessing, the
Commandante briskly pushes over the oak openings, toward the
marshes of the bay. His shadow, the old sergeant, ambles alongside.
Pearly mists rise from the bay. Far to the northeast Mount Diablo
uplifts its peaked summit. From the western ridges balsamic odors of
redwoods float lightly.
Down by the marshes countless snipe, duck, geese, and curlew tempt

the absent sportsman.
The traveller easily overtakes his escort. They have been trying all the