they drew a long sigh of relief, but their enthusiasm was too moderate
for words in present physical conditions. The valley lay below. Far
away, beyond leagues of low hills and wide valleys something white
reflected the sun. It was the Mission.

"We have not a moment to rest, unless we can find a safe hiding-place,"
said Roldan. "If he should return and find us gone, he would follow at
once."

"Where shall we go?" asked the others, who, however, felt a quickening
of blood and muscle at the thought that the priest might be under their
feet even then.

"How near is the next rancho, and whose is it?"

"A league beyond the Mission grant. It is Don Juan Ortega's."

"Very well, we go there and ask for horses."

The boys made their way rapidly down the slope, which after all was only
that of a foot-hill. Beyond were other foot-hills, and they skirted
among them, finally entering a canon. It was as dark and cold and damp
as the last hour of the tunnel had been, but the narrow river, roaring
through its middle, had caught all the snow, and there was scarce a
fleck on the narrow tilted banks. The hill opposite was the last of the
foot-hills; but how to reach it? The current was very swift, and boys
knew naught of the art of swimming in that land of little water.

Suddenly Roldan raised his hand with an exclamation of surprise and
pointed to a ledge overhanging the stream. A hut stood there, made of