Miguel remembered the story of the pearl told in the garden of San Juan so long ago.

"He gave up everything-home-friendsthe hope of joys that might be his in time to come," the priest had said.

As Miguel had grown older, he guessed that the man in the story had been Padre Vicente. What would he have done at a time like this?

Rising from his bed, Miguel walked over to the open window and knelt before it. Through the opening in the hedge of oranges he could see the wheat-field still and white under the moon. There where the shadowy trail of the King's Highway stretched into the distance, the lone poplar towered like a giant monk in the dimness. Somewhere in the oaks in the south of the wheat-field a mocking bird was singing to his mate. Miguel's head went down upon the window sill, and the prayer that went up from his stormy heart was not one found in the breviary. Certain it was, however, that he had never prayed so earnestly before.

A soft breeze from the hills touched Miguel's hot cheek gently; and after a time, wearied out, he fell asleep, his head pillowed on the stone window ledge. For a long time he did not stir, and when the pale light of coming

day began to show above the eastern hills, he dreamed.

In the dream Rafaela was walking by his side in the padre's garden at San Juan Capistrano. Miguel thought that she was his at last, and his joy was unspeakable. A fair, white lily grew beside the path, and he stooped to gather it for her. But just as he was about to place the flower in her hand, the door leading from the garden into the sacristy opened, and Miguel saw Padre Vicente. A look of terrible agony marked the priest's features, and silently he beckoned to Miguel to come. But there was Rafaela-how could he leave her alone? Still Padre Vicente stood in the doorway, his pleading eyes fixed on the young man's face. But Miguel did not go. A cold wave of terror swept over him, and he stood as if in a trance, unable to move or cry out. Then, before his eyes, Padre Vicente disappeared slowly, as if he had been a vision or a ghost. But the young man did not move.

Suddenly he awoke with a cry. A cold sweat broke from his forehead and he trembled violently. In the east the rosy flush of day lay over the hills. Miguel struggled to his feet. and began to dress hurriedly. His cramped position at the window had left him stiff and sore, and a strange, dizzy feeling was in his

head. He wanted to get outdoors-he wanted to get away from the place where the dream had come to him.

Wearily Miguel went out into the rosy dawn. He had spent an almost sleepless night, and his eyes were heavy. The morning song of the linnets in the hedge of oranges met no answer in his heart. Would that the day were over and evening come again, he thought bitterly, since in living there was no joy at all! Scarcely knowing why he did so, he wandered aimlessly around the corner of the house.

Then he stopped, his heart beating wildly. There in the shadow of the oranges stood Rafaela, her rosary in her hands. She did not see him. Her face was lifted to the morning sky, and Miguel saw that she had been weeping. All the young life in him leapt up at sight of her, and unconsciously he started forward. A wild, unreasoning joy such as he felt when he set out on the King's Highway, clutched at his heart. He forgot that he must leave Rafaela that day, forgot that back in San Juan waited Padre Vicente; knew only that she had been weeping and that he loved her. Old Desire rose up in his soul, and the flame of it burned him cruelly. He would take her in his arms and crush her to him-if only for

one moment, she would be his! He loved her -nothing in heaven or earth could ever separate him from the love of her!

Then, as he started forward, all the fire of his soul in his eyes, she turned and saw him. Her face wore a strange exaltation, and again she was like the angel in the church at San Juan. Miguel stopped. It would have been like laying unholy hands upon a saint to have touched her then. The aureole of the sun lay across her head, and reverently he knelt at her feet.

"Rafaela!" he whispered, and, lifting the hem of her garment, he kissed it passionately. For an instant she stood looking down at him. Tremblingly, she laid her hand upon his hair.

"Miguel!" she answered softly, and there was a world of tenderness in her voice. Then, as if frightened at what she had done, she fled.

Later that morning Miguel was riding southward on the King's Highway. In the field to the right a meadow lark bubbled over with joy, and overhead the sun was shining in a turquoise sky; but Miguel neither saw nor heard. No longer did he carry the picture of Rafaela over his heart. It was graven in his soul.

I

CHAPTER XIV.

The Shadow of the Cross

N the valley of peace summer had come and gone. Across the groves and vine

yards drifted the clear, gold haze of autumn; and down from the blue of heaven floated the far cry of the cranes winging their way southward for the winter. The harvest was nearly over, and the days of rain were at hand. From cloister and ranchería alike came the din of labor and the hum of voices. San Juan Capistrano was a veritable hive for industry that year. How long it would be before the hand of the spoilers would overturn the hive and scatter its store of sweets was a question that wisest heads were puzzling themselves to answer.

On a stone seat in the shadow of the church wall sat Padre Vicente and his guest, who was none other than the padre presidente Duran himself. Earlier in the afternoon the padre presidente had met the San Juan priests in the consultation room of the Mission, and now he and Padre Vicente lingered talking in the garden.