"I hope so," said the child fervently. "Let us pray that He will."

Whereupon, the old Indian took a rosary of worn, wooden beads from his neck, and touched the cross reverently.

"Let us rather say a rosary for the good of the man's soul," he said. "The good God knows that he needs all the prayers that he can get! And that would please the padre more," he added, with the wisdom of age.

"Muy bien," assented Miguel reluctantly, "but all the same, Pablo, I had a good deal rather the devil would take him."

I

CHAPTER V.

Arms and a Man

T was the hour before dawn.

Long before

the bells rang for sunrise mass that morn

ing, Padre Vicente had risen from his bed and was pacing the tiled paths of the Mission garden. Far in the eastern sky the white star of morning still quivered faintly, and the cool dusk of night lingered yet in the fragrant recesses of the old garden. All the world was asleep-cloister and ranchería alike lay silent in the dim light of early day. Only, somewhere in the orange groves to the east, a sleepless mockingbird chanted softly to his mate. After a time, the priest halted in his slow pacing of the tiled path, and stood silent, his face toward the east. He might have been an Aztec sun worshiper as he stood there, his eager eyes lifted to where the first faint glimmer of day showed above the eastern hills. But Padre Vicente was not watching for the sun. He was praying.

To one unaccustomed to the ways of the Mission, San Juan Capistrano would have shown little change that morning from what it had for years. True, the splendid stone

arches of the church had never been completely restored since the earthquake, and the beautiful bell tower was gone forever. But the broken walls had been carefully repaired with adobe bricks; and Padre Vicente himself had helped to hang the four bells from the fallen tower in four carved belfries built especially for them in a niched wall west of the garden. And, twice each day, when the bells rang, swarms of dark-skinned worshipers from the teeming valley filled the church as of old. For three years, old Padre Mateo had been sleeping peacefully under the pavement of his beloved church, but his place in the Mission was more than filled by a young and energetic brother of Saint Francis, who went by the name of Padre Esteban.

No, it was none of these things that troubled the heart of Padre Vicente as he faced the dawn that morning. Nor did the fact itself that at the moment a body of rough Mexican cavalrymen slept under the tiled roof of the Mission trouble him. It was not the fact, but the significance of the fact. For all the rifts and cross-currents in the tidal wave of revolution that was sweeping over Mexico were felt in Alta California as well. Like a hen, jealous for her brood and scanning the air for hawks, Padre Vicente yearned over his child

like people, watched the signs of the times, and was afraid. Even now a cold terror clutched at his heart as he thought of the hundreds of unsuspecting people asleep among the plenty that had been theirs so long. Any day the blow might fall that would shatter the whole structure, and what could his poor people do then? That was the question that long had been torturing the heart of the priest.

With a gesture of entreaty, he lifted his arms to the sky. The silver beads of his rosary slipped through his fingers, and the ivory Christ gleamed white in the dusk.

"Be Thou not far from me, O my God," he breathed. "Keep Thine heritage from the snare of the spoiler, Thy people from the power of the dog." As he prayed, his cowl slipped back, baring his tonsured head to the dawn. The eyes were pleading, but a look of hope marked the strong features. "Let me die," he whispered, "but save Thy people."

Then, as the thought of the boy Miguel came to him, an expression of holy joy lighted

up his face. When great souls like Padre Vicente have given their all, they do not wish it back again. The years since his struggle in the ruins on the day of the earthquake had brought the priest no bitterness, but only joy. With holy ferver he had pictured to himself

the child upon whom God had set His seal, a strong man, an apostle of Holy Church, sent to lead her on to victory here in New Spain. He would be like a young graft set in the old stem of the Mission structure, thought Padre Vicente, and through him the Church would be saved her rightful fruitage.

"Let the boy be Thy messenger before Thy face." he prayed joyously, his face set eagerly toward the dawn, "and Thy servant shall have peace."

The faint, gray light along the eastern hills deepened into the rosy flush of widening day, and blotted out the radiance of the quivering star. Then, from all the vines and trees, and from under all the eaves, came the sleepy twitter of waking birds; and from the cloisters the stir of waking human creatures. The day was at hand, with all its manifold duties and dangers, but, more than all, its chance for holy service. Padre Vicente still faced the east, the cold ivory of the carved Christ pressed to his lips now. Then came footsteps on the other side of the belfried wall, and instantly the voice of the Angelus sounded in the still dawn.

"Father, I thank Thee that Thou hast heard me," murmured the priest, and, turning away from the scarlet splendor of morning, set his