The Little Lady of Lagunitas - Richard Savage

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prudence. Peralta opens his eyes in vague wonder. No Yankee? He questions the rash prisoner. Valois tells the facts of Fremont's situation, but he firmly says he knows nothing of his future plans.

      "Why so?" demands Peralta. "Are you a common soldier?" Maxime explains his position as a volunteer.

      A pressing inquest follows. Maxime's frankness touches the Commandante favorably. "I will see you in a day or so. I shall hold you as a prisoner till I know if your chief means war. I may want you as an interpreter if I take the field."

      "Sergeant," he commands.

      The captor salutes his chief.

      "Has this young man told me the truth?"

      "As far as I know, Senior Don Miguel," is the reply.

      "See that he has all he wants. Keep him watched. If he behaves himself, let him move around. He is not to talk to any one. If he tries to escape, shoot him. If he wants to see me, let me know."

      The Commandante lights a Mexican cigar, and signs to the sergeant to remove his prisoner. Maxime sees a score of soldiers wandering around the sunny plaza, where a dozen fleet horses stand saddled. He feels escape is hopeless. As he moves to the door, the chapel bell rings out again, and with a sudden inspiration he halts.

      "Senior Commandante, can I see the priest?" he asks.

      "What for?" sharply demands the officer.

      "I am a Catholic, and would like to talk to him."

      Don Miguel Peralta gazes in wonder. "A Gringo and a Catholic! I will tell him to see you."

      Valois is reconducted to his abode. He leaves a puzzled Commandante, who cannot believe that any despised "Gringo" can be of the true faith. He has only seen the down-east hide traders, who are regarded as heathen by the orthodox Dons of the Pacific.

      Don Miguel knows not that the mariners from Salem and the whalers of New England hold different religious views from the impassioned Creoles of the Crescent City.

      The prisoner's eye catches the black robe of the priest fluttering among the rose walks of the garden. Walking with him is a lady, while a pretty girl of seven or eight years plays in the shady bowers.

      The sergeant gruffly fulfils the orders of his chief. Maxime is given the articles needed for his immediate use. He fears now, at least, a long captivity, but a war may bring his doom suddenly on him.

      There is an air of authority in Miguel Peralta's eye, which is a guarantee of honor, as well as a personal menace. His detention will depend on the actions of the besieged Fremont.

      Valois prays that bloodshed may not occur. His slender chances hang now on a peaceable solution of the question of this Yankee visit.

      There have been days in the dreary winter, when Maxime Valois has tried to divine the future of the magnificent realm he traverses. His education and birth gave him the companionship of the scientific subordinates of the party. His services claimed friendly treatment of the three engineer officers in command. That the American flag will finally reach the western ocean he doubts not. Born in the South, waited upon by patrimonial slaves, he is attached to the "peculiar institution" which throws its dark shadow on the flag of this country. Already statesmen of the party have discussed the question of the extension of slavery. Maxime Valois knows that the line of the Missouri Compromise will here give a splendid new southern star to the flag south of 36 deg 30 min. In the long, idle hours of camp chat, he has laughingly pledged he would bring a band of sable retainers to this western terra incognita. He dreamed of establishing a great plantation, but the prison cell shatters these foolish notions.

      He marvels at his romantic year's experience. Was it to languish in a lonely prison life on the far Pacific, that he left the gay circle at far-off Belle Etoile? Worn with fatigue, harassed with loneliness, a prisoner among strangers, Maxime Valois' heart fails him. Sinking on the couch, he buries his head in his hands.

      No present ray of hope cheers the solitary American. He raises his eyes to see the thoughtful face of a young priest at the door of his prison room.

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      The padre bends searching eyes on the youth as the door opens. The priest's serious face heightens his thirty-five years. He is worn by toil as a missionary among the tribes of the Gila—the Apaches and the wild and brutal Mojaves. Here, among the Piute hill dwellers, his task is hopeless. This spiritual soil is indeed stony. Called from the society of Donna Juanita and his laughing pupil, merry Dolores, he comes to test the religious faith of the young freebooter—Yankee and Catholic at once.

      Maxime's downcast appearance disarms the padre. Not such a terrible fire-eater! He savors not of infidel Cape Cod.

      "My son, you are in trouble," softly says the padre. It is the first kind word Maxime has heard. The boy's heart is full, so he speaks freely to the mild-mannered visitor. Padre Francisco listens to the recital. His eyes sparkle strangely when Valois speaks of New Orleans.

      "Then you understand French?" cries the padre joyously.

      "It is my native tongue," rejoins Valois proudly.

      "My name before I took orders was Fran‡ois Ribaut," says the overjoyed father. "Hold! I must see Don Miguel. I am a Frenchman myself." He flies over the plaza, his long robe fluttering behind him. His quickened steps prove a friendly interest. Maxima's heart swells within him. The beloved language has unlocked the priestly heart.

      In five minutes the curate is back. "Come with me, 'mon fils,'" he says. Guided by the priest, Maxime leaves his prison, its unlocked door swinging open. They reach the head of the square.

      By the chapel is Padre Francisco's house, school-room, and office. A sacristy chamber connects chapel and dwelling.

      The missionary leads the way to the chancel, and points to the altar rails.

      "I will leave you," he whispers.

      There, on his knees, where the wondering Indians gaze in awe of the face on the Most Blessed Virgin, Maxime thanks God for this friend raised up to him in adversity.

      He rejoins the missionary on the rose-shaded porch. In friendly commune he answers every eager query of the padre. The priest finds Maxime familiar with Paris. It is manna in the wilderness to this lonely man of God to speak of the beloved scenes of his youth.

      After the Angelus, Maxime rests in the swinging hammock. The priest confers with the Commandante. His face is hopeful on returning. "My poor boy," he says, "I gained one favor. Don Miguel allows me to keep you here. He loves not the American. Promise me, my son, on the blessed crucifix, that you will not escape. You must not aid the American troops in any way; on this hangs your life."

      These words show that under the priest's frock beats yet the gallant heart of the French gentleman. Maxima solemnly promises. The good father sits under the vines, a happy man.

      Day by day the new friends stroll by the lake. Seated where below them the valley shines in all its bravery of spring, surrounded with the sighing pines, Padre Francisco tells of the resentment of the Californians toward all Americans. They are all "Gringos," "thieving Yankees."

      "Be careful, my son, even here. Our wild vaqueros have waylaid and tortured to death some foreigners. The Diggers, Utes, and Hill Indians butcher any wanderer. Keep closely under my protection. Don Miguel adores Donna Juanita, sweet Christian lady! She will lend me aid; you are thus safe. If your people leave the Hawk's Peak without a battle, our cavalry will not take the field; we expect couriers momentarily. Should fighting begin, Don Miguel will lead his troops. He will then take you as guide or interpreter; God alone must guard you." The man of peace crosses himself in sadness. "Meanwhile, I will soften the heart of Don Miguel."

      Maxime

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