Buried in these reflections, Padre Esteban sauntered leisurely up the garden, that gradually ascended the slight elevation on which the greater part of the pueblo was built.  Through a low gateway in the wall he passed on to the crest of the one straggling street of Todos Santos.  On either side of him were ranged the low one-storied, deep-windowed adobe fondas and artisans’ dwellings, with low-pitched roofs of dull red pipe-like tiles.  Absorbed in his fanciful dreams, he did not at first notice that those dwellings appeared deserted, and that even the Posada opposite him, whose courtyard was usually filled with lounging muleteers, was empty and abandoned.  Looking down the street towards the plaza, he became presently aware of some undefined stirring in the peaceful hamlet.  There was an unusual throng in the square, and afar on that placid surface of the bay from which the fog had lifted, the two or three fishing-boats of Todos Santos were vaguely pulling.  But the strange ship was gone.

A feeling of intense relief and satisfaction followed.  Father Esteban pulled out his snuff-box and took a long and complacent pinch.  But his relief was quickly changed to consternation as an armed cavalcade rapidly wheeled out of the plaza and cantered towards him, with the unmistakable spectacle of the male passengers of the Excelsior riding two and two, and guarded by double files of dragoons on each side.

At a sign from the priest the subaltern reined in his mustang, halted the convoy, and saluted respectfully, to the astonishment of the prisoners.  The clerical authority of Todos Santos evidently dominated the military.  Renewed hope sprang up in the hearts of the Excelsior party.

“What have we here?” asked Padre Esteban.

“A revolution, your Reverence, among the Americanos, with robbery of the Presidio saluting-gun; a grave affair.  Your Reverence has been sent for by the Comandante.  I am taking these men to San Antonio to await the decision of the Council.”

“And the ship?”

“Gone, your Reverence.  One of the parties has captured it.”

“And these?”

“Are the Legitimists, your Reverence:  at least they have confessed to have warred with Mexico, and invaded California—­the brigands.”

The priest remained lost for a moment in blank and bitter amazement.  Banks took advantage of the pause to edge his way to the front.

“Ask him, some of you,” he said, turning to Brace and Crosby, “when this d——­d farce will be over, and where we can find the head man—­the boss idiot of this foolery.”

“Let him put it milder,” whispered Winslow.  “You got us into trouble enough with your tongue already.”

Crosby hesitated a moment.

“Quand finira ce drole representation?—­et—­et—­qui est ce qui est l’entrepreneur?” he said dubiously.

The priest stared.  These Americans were surely cooler and less excitable than his strange guest.  A thought struck him.