Golden lances pierced the haze over the hills, waking the padre
betimes next morning. Already the sacristan was ringing his call.

The caballeros were kneeling when the Indian choir raised the
chants. When mass ended, the "mozos" scoured the potrero, driving
in the chargers. Commandante Peralta lingered a half hour at the
priest's house. There, the flowers bloom in a natural tangle.

The quadrangle is deserted; while the soldier lingers, the priest
runs over the broken chain of missions. He recounts the losses of
Mother Church---seventeen missions in Lower California, twenty-one
all told in Alta California, with all their riches confiscated.
The "pious fund"--monument of the faithful dead--swept into the
Mexican coffers. The struggle of intellect against political greed
looks hopeless.

The friends sadly exchange fears. The bridegroom reminds the priest
that shelter will be always his at the new rancho.

Peralta's plunging roan frets now in the "paseo." After a blessing,
the Commandante briskly pushes over the oak openings, toward the
marshes of the bay. His shadow, the old sergeant, ambles alongside.
Pearly mists rise from the bay. Far to the northeast Mount Diablo
uplifts its peaked summit. From the western ridges balsamic odors
of redwoods float lightly.