toss of aguardiente, the cigarito is lit. The beaux ride out for
a glimpse of the white cliffs of the Golden Gate. The sleeping
Monterey belles dream yet of yester-even. Nature smiles, a fearless
virgin, with open arms. Each rancho offers hospitality. Money
payments are unknown here yet, in such matters.

Down the Santa Clara avenue of great willows these friends ride
in the hush of a starry evening. As the mission shows its lights,
musical bells proclaim the vesper service. Their soft echoes are
wafted to the ears of these devotees.

Devoutly the caballeros dismount. They kneel on the tiled floor
till the evening service ends.

Miguel's heart sinks while he thinks of the missions. He bows in
prayer. Neglected vineyards and general decay reign over the deserted
mission lands.

It is years since Hijar scattered the missions, He paralyzed
the work of the Padres. Already Santa Clara's gardens are wasted.
Snarling coyotes prowl to the very walls of the enclosures left to
the Padres.

Priest and acolytes quit the altar. Miguel sadly leaves the church.
Over a white stone on the sward his foot pauses. There rests one
of his best friends--Padre Pacheco--passed beyond these earthly
troubles to eternal rest and peace. The mandate of persecution
can never drive away that dead shepherd. He rests with his flock
around him.