P CHAPTER X. Rafaela Montijo ADRE Vicente had chosen one of the finest horses from the Mission herd for Miguel's journey; and when the young man rode down San Diego valley that evening, the sun was still a half hour high. Within a mile of the Mission, Miguel passed a typical California ranch home-a long, whitewashed adobe with wide veranda and tiled roof. One lone poplar mounted guard over the entrance at the road, and a thick hedge of tall orange trees bordered one side of the house. Smoke was rising from the kitchen chimney as Miguel rode by; and he looked at it curiously, as part of a life that he knew little of. For what should a man brought up in a monastery know of a home? Nothing from his own experience; but there is always the imagination. In his childhood Miguel had envied his little Indian playfellows their simple joys— father and mother and brothers and sisters, and a home within the four walls of an adobe hut. Now that he was a man, he no longer envied the Indians. But the blue smoke curling upward from the wide kitchen chimney that spring evening aroused an old longing; and impatiently he spurred his horse onward. He would stay that night at San Diego Mission. A few moments later, Miguel came in sight of the tall fachada of the Mission, and the green palm trees for which San Diego was famous. The white walls and red-tiled roofs gleamed splendid in the light of the declining sun; and, according to tradition, the young man should have uttered a pious ejaculation at sight of this first citadel of the faith in Alta California. But Miguel did no such thing. Instead, he caught his breath and almost lost hold of his bridle rein; for there on a big, white horse under the palm trees he saw her-Rafaela Montijo-deep in conversation with a Franciscan priest. The young man could scarcely believe the evidence of his own eyes, for that very morning Padre Vicente had told him that the girl whose picture he carried was in Mexico. But there she was under the palm trees. that as he was that he Miguel was as sure of was alive; there could be no mistake about it. There by the gate in the Mission wall she sat her horse; the light of the setting sun across her head like the aureole of a saint. Miguel thought her the most beautiful thing he had ever seen; and there came to his mind the picture of a young angel by Murillo that hung in the sacristy at San Juan. Instinctively he took off his sombrero. The girl on the horse turned. Miguel saw that she was taking leave of the priest; and as he rode nearer, she wheeled her mount and came directly toward him. She gave him one look in passing-such an impersonal glance as any noble lady might give a strange caballero on the King's Highway. But it was enough for Miguel to be sure that her's was the likeness he carried. Her face wore the same high look-there could not be another like her. On she went in the direction that he had come; and she did not look back. All unconscious of the fact that his horse had stopped to nibble the grass by the way, Miguel turned in his saddle to follow her with his eyes. What should he do? Yonder, disappearing in that cloud of yellow dust, rode Rafaela Montijo, the woman whose picture he carried-the betrothed wife of Antonio Terrazzas. Terrazzas slept under the spring grasses at San Juan; and he, Miguel de Dios Artillaga who carried her picture over his heart, sat here without a word, watching her ride away into the distance. What should he do? Terrazzas was dead and the girl, did not know it. Decidedly it was the duty of Miguel to ride after her to deliver the picture and the message. Yet he did not stir. Wide-eyed and breathless, as if he had seen an angel pass by, he sat in his saddle and watched the girl fast disappearing up the road. What should he do? Suddenly a snatch of ribald song fell upon his ears. A Mexican soldier from the presidio, somewhat the worse for liquor, rode slowly past where Miguel sat. Looking from the young man's face to the woman now almost out of sight up the road, he drew rein. "Console yourself, amigo mío," he said with a leer. "She's pretty, but you can't have her. She's mine already. I tell you-" Startled from his reverie. Miguel turned upon the man in sudden rage, and laid his riding whip full across the drunken face. "Shut your lying mouth-animal-!" he cried furiously, and instinctively drew back to defend himself. Strange to say, however, the man did not show fight. With a muttered curse, he wheeled his horse and galloped back toward the Mission. For a moment Miguel sat in a daze, staring at the whip in his hand. man across the face-he, He had struck a Artillaga who was on his way to Mexico to become a priest. He had not meant to do it— something had lifted his hand and bade him. strike; he did not know what urged him. Mingled feelings surged in his heart-anger, triumph, astonishment at himself. What should he do? Suddenly his brain cleared. Gathering up his reins, he wheeled quickly and dug the spurs into the sides of his horse. He would follow her-Rafaela Montijo-overtake her, and deliver the message. Deep in the uttermost parts of his soul, smouldering embers glowed fiercely as if about to burst into flame. But Miguel did not heed them. With wildly beating heart, he galloped madly back in the way he had come. Somewhere ahead of him on the King's Highway, all unconscious of the sudden tumult that she had caused, rode Rafaela Montijo, and did not look back. The sun hung low in the west now, but Miguel did not see it. Eagerly he pushed his mount onward, till at a bend in the road he came in sight of Rafaela. She had slackened her horse's pace; and instinctively Miguel checked his own speed. Why, he could not have told. They covered a quarter of a mile thus; she looking straight ahead, he following. Then the house of the lone poplar came into |