"Friends! Friends!" cried Roldan gaily, as the tired steeds trotted up
to the corridor. The boys dismounted and made a deep reverence. One of
the priests, a man with a grave stern face came forward.

"Who are you, my children?" he asked. "You are the sons of aristocrats,
and yet you are torn and unkempt, and one of you has ridden many leagues
without a saddle. Are you runaways? The shelter of the Mission is for
all, but we do not countenance insubordination."

Roldan introduced himself and his friend. "We are runaways, my father,"
he added, "but from the government; and we have arranged that our
parents shall not be anxious. We do not wish to be drafted."

The priest's brow relaxed. The padres had little respect for a system
that owed its existence mainly to the vanity of governors and generals,
and the present governor, Micheltorena, had by no means won the approval
of the Church.

"You are welcome, my sons," he said. "If the officers come we cannot
deny your presence; but I do not think they will find their way here,
and we certainly shall not send for them. You are hungry and tired, no?"

"Father, we could eat our horses."

The padre laughed, and calling a young brother who was piously telling
his beads bade him go and see that a hasty luncheon was prepared. An
Indian came and took the mustangs, and the boys were led by the
hospitable priest into a large room, comfortably furnished, the walls
hung with some very good religious pictures.