Ο The King's Highway CHAPTER I The Coming of Don Miguel Na yellow autumn day in the year of to San Juan Capistrano, and the miracle of his coming was so great that for years it rivalled in popularity the stories of the saints and the outlaws. For where there is not only a miracle, but a mystery also, the thing is not forgotten soon. And so it was with Don Miguel, for the story of his coming reads like a page from some old romance. September was always a glorious month in Alta California, and in the year 1806, the saints had not decreed otherwise. Over sleepy San Juan valley drifted a faint, gold mist that blended the kaleidoscopic colors of tawny hills, blue sea-water and green meadows into a delicious maze like the tones in a cathedral window. Across the green floor of the upper valley mottled sycamores trailed like slim, gray snakes, the yellow glory of their fallen leaves below them. Farther down nestled the silver-gray of carefully-nurtured olive groves, between them stretches of green vineyards, tinged with autumn gold. For days the sea-wind had been growing less and less, and on San Miguel's Day, the twenty-ninth of September, it blew not at all. Even the winds, said the Indians, as they gathered the last purple grapes that afternoon, were bowing themselves in honor of the great saint. And those who drove the cattle on the southern ranges blessed the saint, returning thanks for a calm day. For, last San Miguel, had not Pico Juarez, the mysterious outlaw, driven away a whole herd of fat steers under cover of a high wind that muffled the noise of their hoofs? Such a thing would be impossible today, when a sound easily carried for miles in the still air. On a central rise of ground that dominated the valley towered the great Mission of San Juan Capistrano; its white walls, red tiles and massive domes gleaming clear cut as a splendid cameo against the sky. Here was the life of the valley, the reason for all the carefully-tended vineyards, groves and wheatfields a monument to the glory of God and to the faithful labor of priests and neophytes that had completed the beautiful church only a few months ago. Few of the mission churches of Alta California bore as eloquent witness to the adoring love of their priestly builders as did San Juan. Capistrano. A little to the south of the great, square courtyard and its surrounding cloisters it stood: a triumph of architecture, a Te Deum in stone. Built in the form of a Roman cross, with walls of solid masonry five feet thick, eight marvelous domes and a splendid bell tower, San Juan was an old world cathedral in conception and execution. But its builders were not content with massive grandeur alone. Wonderfully carved doorways groined arches and chiselled facings told their story of the builders whose tender devotion showed itself in small things as in great. The men who reared those walls labored not to their own glory. The worship of God and the helping of man were their concern. "Except the Lord build the house, they labor in vain that build it." Padre Vicente Artillaga, burning dead leaves in the little garden in a sheltered corner of the great church wall, felt the spell of the day, and a certain feeling of sadness crept over him. Leaning on his rake, the priest lifted his eyes to where, far in the cloudless blue above, a scattering flock of cranes drifted slowly southward. A faint cry floated down to him from overhead, and the man sighed. The birds were homeward bound, he thought, with a curious feeling of loneliness that seldom came to him. Padre Vicente had little time for vain regrets, neither was his nature inclined toward melancholy. And his sadness, if such it could be called, was of short duration now. Dropping his gaze from the sky, the priest seized his rake with a firm grasp, and began to stir the smouldering fire with vigorous strokes. In the still air rose a column of thin, blue smoke, and Padre Vicente snuffed its spicy fragrance joyously. He was turning to add more dead leaves to the flames, when the door of the west wing of the cloister opened suddenly, and a voice called: "Padre! Padre Vicente!" The voice was brimming with suppressed excitement that made the priest drop the rake and hurry into the cloister. "What is it, Juan?" he asked of the old Indian who had called him. But Juan's answer was a confused jumble in which a dead woman, a young babe and a white shawl dripping with sea-water were strangely mingled. Padre Vicente hurried out to the western colonnade. There, in a crowd of excited Indians, stood Pablo, an Indian who had grown old in the service of |