from the triumphal marches over the North. He may miss the glories
of that day when Robert Toombs calls the roll of his blacks at Bunker
Hill Monument. In the prime of life and vigor of mind, he is rich.
He has now a tiny girl child, gladdening sweet Senora Dolores. His
domain blossoms like the rose. Valois has many things to tie him
to San Joaquin. His princely possessions alone would satisfy any
man. But he would leave all this to ride with the Southern hosts
in their great northward march. Dolores sits often lonely now, on
the porch of the baronial residence which has grown up around the
Don's old adobe mansion. Her patient mother lies under the roses,
by the side of Don Miguel.

Padre Francisco, wearied of the mental death in life of these
lonely hills, has delayed his return to France only by the appeals
of Maxime Valois. He wants a friend at Lagunitas if he takes the
field. If he should be called East, who would watch over his wife
and child? Francois Ribaut, a true Frenchan at heart, looks forward
to some quiet cloister, where he can see once more the twin towers
of Notre Dame. The golden dome of the Invalides calls him back. He
sadly realizes that his life has been uselessly wasted. The Indians
are either cut off, chased away, or victims of fatal diseases. The
Mexicans have fallen to low estate. Their numbers are trifling.
He has no flock. He is only a lonely shepherd. With the Americans
his gentle words avail nothing. The Catholics of the cities have
brought a newer Church hierarchy with them. "Home to France," is
his longing now.

In the interior, quarrels bring about frequent personal encounters
between political disputants. The Northern sympathizers, stung
by jeer, and pushed to the wall, take up their weapons and stand