In wintering in the San Joaquin, Maxime has often heard of the
fabulous wealth and power of this inland chieftain. Don Miguel
Peralta is Commandante of the San Joaquin. By a fortunate marriage
he is related to Jose Castro, the warlike Commandante general of
Pio Pico--a man of mark now. Thousands of cattle and horses, with
great armies of sheep, are herded by his semi-military vaqueros.
The young explorer easily divines now the reason of his abduction.

The party dismounts. While the sergeant seeks the major-domo, Valois'
wondering eye gazes on the beauties of lake and forest. Field and
garden, bower and rose-laden trellises lie before him. The rich
autumn sun will ripen here deep-dyed clusters of the sweet mission
grapes. It is a lordly heritage, and yet his prison. Broad porches
surround the plaza. There swinging hammocks, saddled steeds, and
waiting retainers indicate the headquarters of the Californian Don.

Maxime looks with ill-restrained hatred at his fierce guards. They
squat on the steps and eye him viciously. He is under the muzzle
of his own pistol. It is their day of triumph.

Dragging across the plaza, with jingling spur, trailing leggings,
and sombrero pushed back on his head, the sergeant comes. He points
out Maxime to a companion. The new-comer conducts the American
prisoner to a roughly furnished room. A rawhide bed and a few
benches constitute its equipment. A heavy door is locked on him.
The prisoner throws himself on the hard couch and sleeps. He is
wakened by an Indian girl bringing food and water. Some blankets
are carelessly tossed in by a "mozo." The wanderer sleeps till the
birds are carolling loudly in the trees.