They were in a wide valley now; they could see the great mountains,
still faint under their vapourous mist, the redwoods as rigid of outline
as if the heart of the world beneath had never changed its measure. Just
beyond this valley was a wood, then the Mission. Were twenty thousand
hoofs trampling among its ruins?

They left the valley, entered the wood, galloped down its narrow path,
and emerged. The Mission stood on its plateau above the river, as serene
and proud as the redwoods on the mountain. She had held her own against
many earthquakes and would against many more. But there was not a horn,
a horse, a man, nor a woman to be seen.

The boys dismounted, not daring to think. They walked toward the
buildings, then paused to listen. Through the open doors of the church
rolled the sonorous tones of Padre Osuna's voice, intoning mass. The
boys ran forward to enter the building. They paused on the threshold,
held by a sight, the like of which had never been seen in California
before, and never shall be again.

Near the entrance of the vast building were a multitude of half-clothed
dusky forms, prone. Between them and the altar were more than an hundred
horses, caparisoned with silver and carved leather, and gay anquera.
They stood as if petrified. On them, huddled to the arching necks, in an
attitude of prostrate devotion, were magnificent bunches of colour;
scarce an outline could be seen of the proudly attired men and women who
had fled before a tidal wave of tossing horns. Father Osuna, in his
coarse brown woollen robes, stood before the altar, chanting the mass of
thanksgiving. The church blazed with the light of many candles. The air
was thick and sweet with incense.