the rarest mount in the race. To-day these gay riders are shadows
of a forgotten past.

Before noon Captain Peralta receives the order of the Governor. It
authorizes him to locate his military grant. General Vallejo, with
regret, hands Miguel an order relieving him from duty. He is named
Commandante of the San Joaquin valley, under the slopes of the
undefiled Sierras.

Laden with messages, despatches, and precious letters for the ranches
on the road to the Golden Gate, he departs. These are entrusted to
the veteran sergeant, major-domo and shadow of his beloved master.
Miguel bounds into the saddle. He gayly salutes the Governor
and General with a graceful sweep of his sombrero. He threads the
crowded plaza with adroitness, swaying easily from side to side as
he greets sober friend or demure Donna. He smiles kindly on all the
tender-eyed senoritas who admire the brave soldier, and in their
heart of hearts envy Juanita Castro, the Rose of Alameda.

Alert and courteous, the future bright before him, Peralta gazes
on the Mexican flag fluttering in the breeze. A lump rises in his
throat. His long service is over at last. He doffs his sombrero
when the guard "turns out" for him. It is the last honor.

He cannot foresee that a French frigate will soon lie in the very
bay smiling at his feet, and cover the returning foreigner with
her batteries.

In two short years, sturdy old Commodore Jones will blunder along
with the American liners, CYANE and UNITED STATES, and haul down