"I had forgotten the old duffer," he smiled back at me. Raising his
glasses again, he scanned the sombre roofs to the right. "There's
another monument," he volunteered, "rising out of the heart of the
city."

I followed the direction indicated to where the outstretched arms of a
white wooden cross were silhouetted against the sky.

"If I were in Europe," he continued, "I should call it a shrine, for the
sides of the hill on which it stands are seamed with paths running from
the net-work of houses to the foot of the cross."

"It is a shrine at which all San Francisco worships. Wrapped in mystery
it stands, for when it was placed there no one knows. It comes to us out
of the past--a token left by the Spanish padres. Three times it has
fallen into decay, but always loving hands have reached forward to
restore it, and as long as San Francisco shall last, a cross will rise
from the summit of Lone Mountain."

"The Spanish padres!" The ring in his voice bespoke his interest. "Are
there any other relics left?"

I pointed to the level section below. "Do you see that low red roof
almost hidden by its towering neighbors? That is the old Mission San
Francisco de Asis, colloquially called Dolores, from the little rivulet
on whose bank it was built."

Through his field glasses he scrutinized the expanse of substantial
houses and paved streets. "I can't find the rivulet," he announced.