They stole past the long mission, crossing themselves as they glanced askance at the ghostly row of pillars; past the guard-house, where the sentries slept at their post; past the rancheria; then, springing upon a waiting mustang, dashed down the valley.  Pilar had never been on a horse before, and she clung in terror to Andreo, who bestrode the unsaddled beast as easily as a cloud rides the wind.  His arm held her closely, fear vanished, and she enjoyed the novel sensation.  Glancing over Andreo’s shoulder she watched the mass of brown and white buildings, the winding river, fade into the mountain.  Then they began to ascend an almost perpendicular steep.  The horse followed a narrow trail; the crowding trees and shrubs clutched the blankets and smocks of the riders; after a time trail and scene grew white:  the snow lay on the heights.

“Where do we go?” she asked.

“To Zaca Lake, on the very top of the mountain, miles above us.  No one has ever been there but myself.  Often I have shot deer and birds beside it.  They never will find us there.”

The red sun rose over the mountains of the east.  The crystal moon sank in the west.  Andreo sprang from the weary mustang and carried Pilar to the lake.

A sheet of water, round as a whirlpool but calm and silver, lay amidst the sweeping willows and pine-forested peaks.  The snow glittered beneath the trees, but a canoe was on the lake, a hut on the marge.

II

Padre Arroyo tramped up and down the corridor, smiting his hands together.  The Indians bowed lower than usual, as they passed, and hastened their steps.  The soldiers scoured the country for the bold violators of mission law.  No one asked Padre Arroyo what he would do with the sinners, but all knew that punishment would be sharp and summary:  the men hoped that Andreo’s mustang had carried him beyond its reach; the girls, horrified as they were, wept and prayed in secret for Pilar.

A week later, in the early morning, Padre Arroyo sat on the corridor.  The mission stood on a plateau overlooking a long valley forked and sparkled by the broad river.  The valley was planted thick with olive trees, and their silver leaves glittered in the rising sun.  The mountain peaks about and beyond were white with snow, but the great red poppies blossomed at their feet.  The padre, exiled from the luxury and society of his dear Spain, never tired of the prospect:  he loved his mission children, but he loved Nature more.

Suddenly he leaned forward on his staff and lifted the heavy brown hood of his habit from his ear.  Down the road winding from the eastern mountains came the echo of galloping footfalls.  He rose expectantly and waddled out upon the plaza, shading his eyes with his hand.  A half-dozen soldiers, riding closely about a horse bestridden by a stalwart young Indian supporting a woman, were rapidly approaching the mission.  The padre returned to his seat and awaited their coming.