Roldan slipped down, sprang up, then strained his eyes once more into
the depths of the forest. Nothing moved but that winding procession.
Occasionally a coyote yapped or a wildcat yelled. Suddenly something
fell against his face, pricking it gently. He looked over Anastacio's
shoulder. They were passing into an open. The air was full of white,
whirling particles.

"It snows," said Anastacio; "but we are soon there."

"We are in the Sierras," thought Roldan. He looked about with intense
interest; he had never seen snow before; and to penetrate the mystery of
the mighty Sierras had been one of the hopes of his life. The ground was
white, and crunched under the horses' hoofs. The air was thick with
snow-stars glittering under the full radiance of the moon. Roldan forgot
that he was a captive. His mind had made its first impulse to the
mysteries of night and solitude during the few moments between his entry
into another forest and the encounter with the bear; it now made its
first real opening. He was vaguely troubled by the embryonic thoughts
that in their maturity come to men who have lived and suffered, when
they are alone in a forest at night, far from other men.

Again they plunged into the forest. No snow penetrated the treetops,
knit together by centuries and storms. All was black again, and the deep
ocean of leaf and branch roared faintly overhead.

Roldan felt oppressed and thoughtful. He looked into the future and saw
himself a man. He would be governor of the Californias, and make himself
a good and great man, wiser than the idle caballeros who patronised him;
he would teach them the folly of their useless lives.