The Cross of Santa Fe



The kings highway which led up from Vera Cruz, the chief port of the
eastern coast of Mexico, to the capital city of New Spain had in the
eighteenth century more history connected with it than any other road in
the new world. Over it had passed Montezuma with all the splendor of his
pagan court. On it, too, had marched and counter marched his grim
conqueror, the great Cortez. Through its white dust had traveled an
almost endless procession of mules and slaves, carrying the treasures of
the mines of Mexico and the rich imports of Manila and India on toward
Spain.

Over this road there was journeying, one winter day in the year 1749, a
traveler of more importance to the history of the state of California
than any one who had gone before. He was no great soldier or king, only
a priest in the brownish gray cloak of the order of St. Francis. He was
slight in figure, and limped painfully from a sore on his leg, caused,
it is supposed, by the bite of some poisonous reptile. The chance
companions who traveled with him begged him to stop and rest beside a
stream, but he would not. Then, as he grew more weary, they entreated
him to seek shelter in a ranch house near by and give up his journey.

"Speak not to me thus. I am determined to continue. I seem to hear
voices of unconverted thousands calling me," was all the answer he gave.
So on foot, with no luggage but his prayer book, he limped out of sight
--the humble Spanish priest, Junipero Serra.