shoulder. Here was a man after his heart. Always he had been ahead of
the van, selecting camp sites, clearing ways through impenetrable brush,
fighting off hostile savages. Now, ill and hungry as he was, for rations
had for several days been down to four tortillas per man, Ortega was
ready to set forth again.

"You had better rest, Saldado. You are far from well. Start to-morrow."

Ortega shrugged. "Meanwhile they mutter," his eyes jerked to the
indiscriminate company below.

"When men march and have a motive, they forget their grievances. When
they lie in camp the devil stalks about and puts mischief into their
thought. I have been a soldier for fourteen years, your excellency."

"And I for thirty," said the other dryly, but he smiled. "You are
right, my sergeant. Go. And may your patron saint, the reverend father
of Assisi, aid you."

Ortega saluted and withdrew. "I will require three days with your
excellency's grace," he said. Portola nodded and observed Ortega's sharp
commands wheel a dozen mounted soldados into line. They galloped past
him, their lances at salute and dashed with a clatter of hoofs into the
valley below.

Young Francisco Garvez spurred his big mare forward till he rode beside
the sergeant. A tall, half-lanky lad he was with the eager prescience of
youth, its dreams and something of its shyness hidden in the dark
alertness of his mien.