UC-NRLF 
 
 THE 
 
 KING S 
 
 HIGHWAY 
 
 MADELINE 
 
 DEADERICK 
 
 WILLARD 
 
 
SCtttg s 
 
 A Sinmanrr of 
 
 3Fnmrt0ratt 
 
 in Alia OJaiifnntta 
 
 By MADELINE DEADERICK WILLARD 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 GRAFTON PUBLISHING CORPORATION 
 1913 
 
COPYRIGHT 
 
 GRAFTON PUBLISHING CORPORATION 
 1913 
 
 PRESS OF WEST COAST MAGAZINE 
 LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Chapter. Page. 
 
 I. THE COMING OF DON MIGUEL. . . 7 
 
 II. THE GREATER PASSION 17 
 
 III. LA PURISIMA 28 
 
 IV. THE CHAMPION OF THE PADRE. .. 48 
 V. ARMS AND A MAN 57 
 
 VI. THE HEART OF MIGUEL 72 
 
 VII. THE WAY OF ALL THE EARTH ... 77 
 
 VIII. ASHES OF ROSES 89 
 
 IX. THE KING S HIGHWAY 98 
 
 X. RAFAELA MONTIJO 106 
 
 XL LA ENCINA 121 
 
 XII. SPOTTED LILIES AND WHITE 126 
 
 XIII. THE HEM OF HER GARMENT 138 
 
 XIV. THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS 150 
 
 XV. HOLY ORDERS 165 
 
 XVI. A DREAM OF OLD SPAIN 173 
 
 XVII. THE CLOISTER GATE. . .188 
 
Photo by H. K. Roberts 
 
 The Ruined Church of Juan Capistrano To-day 
 
Ktttg a Sj 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 The Coming of Don Miguel 
 
 ON a yellow autumn day in the year of 
 Our Lord 1806, Don Miguel first came 
 to San Juan Capistrano, and the mira 
 cle 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 ca 
 thedral 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 
 
8 The King s Highway 
 
 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 ne 
 ophytes that had completed the beautiful 
 church only a few months ago. 
 
The King s Highway 9 
 
 Few of the mission churches of Alta Cali 
 fornia 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 clois 
 ters 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 spkndid 
 bell tower, San Juan was an old world ca 
 thedral in conception and execution. But its 
 builders were not content with massive gran 
 deur 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 
 
10 The King s Highway 
 
 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 in 
 clined 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 vigor 
 ous 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 
 
The King s Highway 11 
 
 the Mission. In his arms he clasped a bundle 
 wrapped in the damp folds of a white shawl, 
 and over the heads of the gesticulating crowd, 
 his eyes sought the padre. 
 
 "Pablo," said the priest calmly, "come this 
 way." Waving the crowd back, Padre Vicente 
 led the man into the cloister and shut the door. 
 
 "Now tell me what this matter is," he said 
 gently, "and by the most holy San Miguel, I 
 shall believe every word you say, for you are 
 a trustworthy man." 
 
 Pablo cast an adoring look at the padre. 
 
 "This afternoon," he said simply, "Padre 
 Mateo sent Pablo after the cattle in the pas 
 ture by the sea. When Pablo came there he 
 saw a little boat on the rocks off the shore, 
 and there were a man and a woman in it. 
 The boat was breaking in two in the middle, 
 and the people could not get off, for there 
 were many rocks and the waves were high. 
 Pablo could do nothing, and so he prayed to 
 the blessed Virgin, but it was of no use. A 
 big wave went over the boat, and when it 
 passed by, the boat was in two pieces, and the 
 water went over the boat." Pablo breathed 
 heavily, and his voice trembled, as if the 
 moment were yet with him. "Pablo waited 
 on the shore," he went on, "to see if any 
 should come ashore alive. But there came 
 
12 The King s Highway 
 
 none but this child in its mother s arms and 
 the mother was dead her head struck on a 
 rock." Pablo s voice was gentle now. "Pablo 
 took the child," he said, "and waited to see 
 if the man should come ashore. But he did 
 not come. The water carried him away." 
 
 "Give me the child," said Padre Vicente 
 suddenly. 
 
 With the greatest tenderness, the old Indian 
 laid his burden in the priest s outstretched 
 arms. 
 
 "And the child is whole, Pablo he is not 
 hurt at all." 
 
 "Quite whole, padre," said Pablo reverently, 
 "quite whole. The mother s arm kept him 
 from the rocks. It is a miracle the holy 
 saints have saved him." 
 
 "You are right, Pablo," returned Padre 
 Vicente, "it is indeed a miracle." He pushed 
 aside the folds of the shawl that he might 
 look at the child. The little thing wakened, 
 and its round, dark eyes gazed straight into 
 the padre s own. It was evidently pleased 
 with what it saw there, for it smiled, and, 
 lifting one fist, waved it full in the face of 
 Padre Vicente s thirty-five years of priestly 
 dignity. 
 
 "Poor little one," murmured the padre com 
 passionately, as he laid the child again in the 
 
The King s Highway 13 
 
 Indian s arms. "Take it to your wife, Pablo, 
 that she may care for it. If she finds any 
 mark on its clothing, let her bring it to me. 
 And the mother " 
 
 "The body is in the courtyard, padre," said 
 Pablo quietly. 
 
 "Let the women prepare it for burial," 
 directed Padre Vicente after a moment, "and 
 if there are any marks that may tell who she 
 was, have them brought to me." 
 
 "Si, padre," replied the old Indian, and 
 carried the child out of the room. Then, 
 because the Angelus was ringing, Padre Vi 
 cente made his way into the sacristy of the 
 church. 
 
 * * * 
 
 When three days had passed, a burial ser 
 vice was held in San Juan Mission, and after 
 ward a christening. The burial was read for 
 the mother of the baby who was christened, 
 and both services were under the direction 
 of Padre Vicente. 
 
 The most rigorous search had failed to 
 reveal any marks of identification on either 
 mother or child. The features of the mother, 
 who was young and beautiful, were of the 
 proud, Castilian type, but her clothes were 
 simple and unmarked, and her only ornament 
 was a plain, gold ring without engraving of 
 
14 The King s Highway 
 
 any description. The child, a boy of perhaps 
 twelve months, was richly dressed, and wore 
 about his neck a blessed medal of Our Lady 
 of Guadalupe. The medal bore no mark of any 
 kind, however, and at first the good padre was 
 puzzled to know what to do concerning the 
 naming of the child. Though careful search 
 was made both up and down the coast, for 
 the body of the man who was probably the 
 father of the child, nothing was found. A 
 strong offshore current at the place of the 
 accident had carried away every trace of the 
 wreck, and not even a plank from the frail 
 craft came ashore. This fact was clear proof 
 that the child had been saved by a miracle, 
 for who else but the good God and His holy 
 saints could have brought the child safely to 
 land through the sharp rocks and beating 
 waves, when all else was lost? But the saints 
 must also have decreed that child s name 
 should forever remain a mystery, else why was 
 no trace left? 
 
 So Padre Vicente decided to baptize the 
 child. For, he reasoned, since the babe 
 brought no name with him, he must have a 
 new one to grow up with, and to gain a new 
 name, he must be baptized. The blessed medal 
 of Our Lady tied about the child s throat 
 doubtless indicated that the mother was a 
 
The King s Highway 15 
 
 pious woman, who died in the hope of God, 
 and being pious, she must have had her son 
 baptized. But of course there was a chance 
 that circumstances might have prevented the 
 ceremony. At any rate, argued Padre Vi 
 cente, it was certain that a second baptism 
 could do no harm. 
 
 Accordingly, when the burial was over, and 
 the prayers for the dead had been recited, 
 both for the fair, young mother in the Mission 
 graveyard and the luckless young father under 
 the blue sea-water, the child was christened. 
 The solemn ceremony was performed with 
 holy water taken from the great baptismal 
 font of carved stone by the hand of Padre 
 Vicente himself, with old Pablo and his wife 
 Maria as sponsors. The name the padre 
 conferred upon the child was Miguel de Dios 
 Artillaga ; Miguel, because he came to the 
 Mission on San Miguel s Day, and de Dios 
 Artillaga because, as Padre Vicente told him 
 self, he had a better right to give that name 
 than any other, since it was his own name, and 
 had been his father s. Besides, it was a very 
 honorable name, that any man might be proud 
 to bear. 
 
 From the niches in the transepts and above 
 the altar, the Holy Christ, His Virgin Mother, 
 and nine blessed saints stared with unwinking 
 
16 The King s Highway 
 
 eyes across blazing candles at the solemn 
 ceremony, and the dim church was crowded 
 with awed neophytes who had attended the 
 burial service an hour before. 
 
 And so little Miguel de Dios Artillaga 
 started out life anew at San Juan Capistrano, 
 with a new name conferred with all the rites 
 of Holy Church, a pair of pious Indian god 
 parents, and a holy father to watch over his 
 soul living as it were, in the very shadow of 
 the sanctuary. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 The Greater Passion 
 
 OVER the valley of the Mission of the 
 Crusader saint passed the gorgeous 
 pageantry of the years, and found 
 Padre Vicente still at his post. If a friend of 
 the padre s youth in Old Spain had chanced 
 into San Juan church some morning while the 
 padre celebrated sunrise mass, he would have 
 said at first glance that the man had grown 
 older, of course, but that at forty he was the 
 same man that he had been at twenty-one. The 
 tall frame in the priest s robe was a little 
 more spare perhaps, and the muscles were 
 harder. The skin was browner by reason of 
 much labor under the sun ; but the tonsured 
 head was not gray, and being shaven served 
 only to accentuate the noble plan on which 
 the head was built. The light of the sun and 
 the cares of the Church had put some lines 
 into the face, but it was the same honest, open 
 face, and the magnetic eyes were the same. 
 No, at forty. Padre Vicente was not another 
 man than he had been at twentyone. 
 
 That is what one would have said at first 
 
18 The King s Highiuay 
 
 glance, but on second thought, the friend of 
 the padre s youth would have said that the 
 man was not the same. There was something 
 in the face of the priest that had not been there 
 in his younger days. It was what the world 
 sees in the faces of certain saints, but not all. 
 It was the seal of something invisible, but not 
 unknowable, and if one had said that it was 
 renunciation, one would have been only half 
 right. It was all of that, but it was more. 
 Moreover, if there are those of you who think 
 that a priest s robe is an infallible sign of 
 renunciation, you are sadly mistaken. There 
 are several ways in which a man may don a 
 priest s robe without renunciation, but Padre 
 Vicente s way was none of these. 
 
 If a man, poor both in the things of this 
 world and the things of the spirit, put on a 
 priest s gown because it assures him a living 
 and safety from a hard world, he renounces 
 nothing because he has nothing to renounce. 
 Also, there are those who, because their nature 
 is cold to the things of this world, enter holy 
 orders because they care not at all for any 
 thing. In reality these are not different from 
 the former, since, not caring for what they 
 have left, they cannot know renunciation. 
 Another class of those who know not the 
 blessings of sacrifice are those who enter the 
 
The King s Highway 19 
 
 service of the Church as a last resort because 
 of disappointment in the things of this life. 
 Surely they have not renounced, since that 
 which they love has been torn from them. 
 
 A man knows renunciation only when of 
 his own free will, he leaves what he loves for 
 the sake of a cause. Padre Vicente had done 
 this to the full; but, because he had been urged 
 by more than a sense of duty, he had known 
 what was greater than sacrifice. And this, 
 more than anything else, was the elusive thing 
 in the face of the man of forty that had not 
 been there at twenty-one. 
 
 The eldest son of a wealthy Spanish family 
 of high estate, Padre Vicente, then known as 
 Evaristo de Dios Artillaga, seemed destined 
 for great things. Richly endowed, not only 
 with worldly wealth, but also with unusual 
 powers of body, mind and personality, young 
 Artillaga was the idol of a host of friends 
 Keenly appreciative of the joy of living, he 
 rejoiced in his great opportunities, and because 
 of his marked qualities of leadership, he might 
 have made a name for himself in the affairs 
 of state. But Fate had cast the young man s 
 lot in another direction. The friends of Evar- 
 isto s youth were not of one class alone, and 
 among them was a priest of the cathedral in 
 Tarragona. This priest was a man of high 
 
20 The King s Highway 
 
 character and clear vision, and to him was 
 entrusted the mission of giving to the Church 
 a noble son. From the priest, Evaristo 
 learned of the splendid work of Junipero 
 Serra and his coadjutors on the shores of New 
 Spain. Like them, the young man became 
 fired with the glory of missionary enterprise, 
 and, after a hard struggle in which the spirit 
 triumphed over the flesh, declared his inten 
 tion of entering a priests college with a view 
 toward the New World. The elder Artillaga 
 was a man of great worldly wisdom, and he 
 opposed the purpose of his son. But the zeal 
 of Evaristo was so great that it finally pre 
 vailed, and the young man entered the Order 
 of Saint Francis. And herein lay a paradox. 
 Possessing more of the good things of this 
 life than most men possess, arid loving them 
 more, Evaristo de Dios Artillaga must have 
 sacrificed more in giving them up. Yet, in 
 another way, his sacrifice was less, since his 
 vision was greater. It was not that the things 
 of this life were less to him ; but that the 
 Cross of Christ was more. 
 
 So it was that Evaristo turned his back on 
 the world that he knew and loved so well. 
 And then, as if it had been decreed that the 
 cup of life which he was setting aside should 
 not lack one drop of perfect fullness, during 
 
The King s Highivay 21 
 
 the period of preparation for the priesthood, 
 Evaristo met the woman who ever after was 
 the one woman of all to him. Even as his 
 powers of mind and body exceeded those of 
 most men, Evaristo exceeded also in loving. 
 And as if this were not enough, though no 
 word of love passed between him and the pure 
 object of his passion, it was given to him to 
 know that she loved him too. It was not 
 too late yet to refuse the final vows life 
 and love were easily reached. This thing 
 cost more infinitely more to set aside than 
 all the rest, and that had not been easy. 
 Yet Evaristo put this behind him, as he 
 had done with everything else. It was not that 
 love was less to him than to other men. For, 
 though many may not believe it, there is a 
 greater passion than love. And it was this 
 greater passion that had taken possession of 
 the body and soul of Evaristo de Dios Artil- 
 laga. 
 
 Therefore, when Padre Vicente came to his 
 labors on the far off shores of Alta California, 
 he came as one who had known the whole 
 joy of living, yet had set all aside for 
 the passion of his soul. Perhaps that was 
 the secret of the peculiar sympathy that he 
 brought to the field of his labors; and certain 
 is was that it was easier for the people to 
 
22 The King s Highway 
 
 believe what he told them of the love of God, 
 because of the clear image of that love in the 
 priest s tenderness for them. But, having set 
 aside all that he had for the greater passion, 
 Padre Vicente did not know that in time the 
 love of God would require of him still more. 
 * * * 
 
 From the blue of heaven the call of the 
 southward drifting cranes floated down to the 
 padres garden, as it had on that day six years 
 ago when little Miguel first came to San Juan 
 Capistrano. But Padre Vicente, pruning the 
 Castilian rose that nestled in the crook of the 
 church wall, did not look up to see the birds. 
 Instead, he was all intent upon the innocent 
 prattle of little Miguel who played at his feet, 
 digging with a trowel in the soft earth. Then 
 Miguel, looking up saw the cranes. 
 
 "Look, padre," he said in his quaint Spanish, 
 "there are birds." 
 
 "Si, Miguelito Mio," answered Padre Vi 
 cente, still busy with his rose, "those are 
 cranes." 
 
 "Cranes," repeated the child after him, 
 "cranes, padre." 
 
 He dropped his trowel, and running to the 
 priest, took a fold of the man s brown robe in 
 his hand. Miguel was not more than seven 
 years of age, but, living as he did in the 
 
The King s Highway 23 
 
 solemn atmosphere of a monastery, and listen 
 ing to stories of the saints and chants of the 
 Church where other children heard fairy tales 
 and nursery songs, it was no wonder that he 
 was old beyond his years. "Tell Miguel where 
 the cranes go," he begged eagerly. 
 
 "Where they go?" said Padre Vicente. 
 "Why, hijo mio, they are going home for the 
 winter." 
 
 "Home?" questioned Miguel wonderingly. 
 "Do cranes have homes, padre?" 
 
 The child thought for a moment. 
 
 "Did you ever have a home, padre?" he 
 asked suddenly. 
 
 "Sure, Miguel of my heart. My home is 
 here." 
 
 "But not like that," persisted the child. 
 "You live in a big house with other men, but 
 you have not a home. I mean a home like the 
 home of Manuel," he went on, referring to 
 one of his little Indian companions. "He lives 
 in a little house with his father and mother and 
 brothers and sisters. He has a home." 
 
 The priest was silent for a moment, and he 
 forgot to prune the rose vine. 
 
 "Home! Father and mother and brothers 
 and sisters!" 
 
 What memories the words awoke! Across 
 the years the mind of Padre Vicente flashed 
 
24 The King s Highway 
 
 back to his ancestrial home in Old Spain 
 his beloved parents, his happy brothers and 
 sisters, his friends. And the woman who was 
 now to him like a saint in a niche, put there 
 out of reach by his own hand who might 
 have been all else to him the priest shut 
 his eyes for a moment. He had left them all 
 to carry the Cross of Christ into the wilder 
 ness. The cost had been heavy, but all was 
 as nothing beside the exceeding great reward. 
 
 "Padre listen," Miguel was saying again. 
 "Did you have a home when you were a little 
 boy like me?" 
 
 "Si, Miguelito, si," answered the man ten 
 derly. "Come here, beloved, and Padre Vi 
 cente will tell you a story." 
 
 Together the priest and the child sat down 
 on the stone bench in the sun, and the man 
 took the little one s hand in his. 
 
 "Once, Miguelito Mio," he began, "there 
 lived a man who had everything to make 
 him happy home and father and mother and 
 brothers and sisters. He lived in a beautiful 
 house in a beautiful land, and he had gold 
 to buy everything his heart could wish for 
 himself and his friends. He was very happy 
 with all this. But one day he saw something 
 that was much finer than anything that he 
 had oh much more splendid than all his 
 
The King s Highway 25 
 
 beautiful things. It was a pearl, and when the 
 man saw it, he wanted it more than he had 
 ever wanted anything else/ 
 
 The priest paused for a moment, and the 
 listening child grew impatient. 
 
 "Please, padre, go on," he begged. "Didn t 
 the man who was so rich have enough money 
 to buy the pearl?" 
 
 "No, Miguel," said Padre Vicente gravely. 
 "There was not enough money in the world 
 to buy that pearl." 
 
 "But I thought you said the man had a great 
 deal of money, all he wanted," argued little 
 Miguel. "Wasn t it like the pearl in the story 
 you read in the Book the pearl of great 
 price? And the man in that story bought 
 the pearl." 
 
 "Yes," agreed Padre Vicente, "it was like 
 that. But the pearl in my story was not 
 bought with money." 
 
 "How was it bought, then?" puzzled the 
 child. "I thought money was to buy things 
 with." 
 
 "Listen, and you shall hear," said the padre. 
 "Money could not buy the pearl, because it 
 was not for one man alone. He could not 
 keep it for himself. It was to share with 
 other people, and that was what made it cost 
 so much." 
 
26 The King s Highway 
 
 "And how much did it cost, then?" asked 
 the child. 
 
 "It cost everything that the man had," an 
 swered Padre Vicente simply. "The man had 
 to pay much more than money. Home and 
 father and mother friends and the hope of 
 joys that might be his in time to come all 
 these were the price of the pearl." 
 
 "And did the man pay the price?" ques 
 tioned Miguel anxiously. 
 
 "Si, Miguelito mio," returned the priest 
 calmly, "he paid the price." 
 
 "What? Everything?" cried the child in 
 surprise. "You don t mean that he gave up 
 all that he had?" 
 
 "Everything, Miguel," said the padre. 
 
 "But the man in the Book didn t do that," 
 said the child sagely, "he didn t give up his 
 friends. He just paid money." 
 
 "We do not know, hijo mio," replied the 
 priest. "Perhaps the man s friends wouldn t 
 care for him any longer when all his posses 
 sions were gone." 
 
 "I hadn t thought of that," said little Miguel 
 slowly. Then, after a silence, he lifted troubled 
 eyes to the padre s face. "Was the man ever 
 sorry that he gave everything for the pearl?" 
 
 Padre Vicente smiled. 
 
 "No, Miguelito, the man was never sorry," 
 
The King s Highway 27 
 
 he said. "He was happier than he had ever 
 been before." 
 
 The child drew a long breath of relief. 
 
 "Then it isn t true what old Juana says 
 that you have to wait to be happy till you are 
 dead?" he asked innocently. 
 
 "No, hijo mio," said the priest with certain 
 ty, "you do not have to wait." 
 
 Whereby, had little Miguel been able to 
 understand, he would have known that Padre 
 Vicente had already entered upon his exceed 
 ing great reward. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 La Purisima 
 
 A/ONG the bare, broken hillsides of 
 San Juan the early rains brought 
 autumn grass that year, and the 
 tragedy of 1812 had not yet come to pass. 
 The changes that had come over the peaceful 
 little valley during the past few years were 
 gradual but sure. The rancherias were larger 
 and more thickly populated, and the flocks 
 and herds that roamed the hills were more 
 numerous and more prosperous than before. 
 The olive groves were older, and bore heavier 
 crops of glistening black fruit. Along the 
 level floor of the valley, the vineyards and 
 orchards spread more widely than in the past, 
 and everywhere the yellow wheat-fields ex 
 tended farther over the rolling mesas. All 
 through the valley moved swarms of Indians 
 at their work among the groves and vineyards, 
 and in the cloisters resounded the swing and 
 thud of the loom and the clang of the hammer 
 at the forge. The bells in the tower swung 
 over all with benediction still, but in the 
 hearts of Padre Vicente and his brother priests 
 
The King s Highway 29 
 
 lurked a fear that in the space of a few years 
 had grown from the measure of a mocking 
 dwarf to the stature of a threatening giant. 
 It was the fear of a premature secularization 
 of the Missions. Beside this menace, the 
 terror of Pico Juarez, who still lurked in the 
 hills, harrying the flocks and herds and leading 
 off Indians from the Mission, was like the 
 shadow of a summer cloud. From the first 
 the fathers had known that secularization must 
 come some day. No one doubted that in the 
 fullness of time, secularization would be the 
 fitting outcome of the Mission system. But 
 the fullness of time was not yet, and premature 
 secularization \vould mean the utter ruin of 
 the whole splendid fabric wrought so tenderly 
 by the devoted hands of the Mission fathers. 
 Desperately the fathers fought against it, and 
 hopefully they told each other that the dread 
 blow surely would not fall, until, softened by 
 the fullness of time, it should be not a blow 
 at all, but rather a blessing. But still the 
 menace lurked in the dark, peering out of 
 corners where least expected ; and the heart of 
 each loyal adherent of Holy Church in New 
 Spain grew cold with the fear he tried not to 
 feel 
 
30 The King s Highway 
 
 The afternoon of the seventh of December, 
 the eve of the Feast of the Immaculate Concep 
 tion, was warm and sultry in San Juan valley. 
 Old Rosario, a huge, woven basket on his arm, 
 and little Miguel trotting at his side, crossed 
 the King s Highway south of the Mission 
 buildings and plunged into a thicket of wil 
 lows and live oaks that bordered the road. The 
 two had come to gather green boughs to place 
 in the church in honor of the morrow s celebra 
 tion, and they halted first under a tall sycamore 
 filled with clinging knots of pearl-studded 
 mistletoe. 
 
 The child picked up a bunch of the gleaming 
 berries that his companion had gathered, and 
 thrust it into the basket, but it was plain that 
 his thoughts were somewhere else. 
 
 "Rosario," he said slowly, as he looked wist 
 fully back to where the broad trail of the 
 King s Highway stretched away outside the 
 thicket, "Rosario, where does the trail go to?" 
 
 "What? The King s Highway?" asked the 
 old Indian in his husky voice. "It goes to the 
 other churches. I have been as far north as 
 San Gabriel, and south to San Diego," he said 
 proudly. 
 
 "But after that after San Diego, where 
 then, Rosario?" questioned Miguel. 
 
The King s Highway 31 
 
 "Santisima! And have not the padres told 
 you? To Mexico then." 
 
 "Oh, but I don t mean that, " exclaimed the 
 boy petulantly. "I don t mean just Mexico." 
 
 "What do you mean then?" queried old 
 Rosario patiently. 
 
 "Oh beyond Mexico and the mountains 
 what is there, Rosario? 
 
 The old man shook his head. 
 
 "Dios sabe," he said piously, and crossed 
 himself. Then, after a moment in which there 
 was no sound save the chattering of the quar 
 reling black birds in the branches overhead, 
 the man laid down his armful of green boughs. 
 
 "Ask the padres," he said with the air of one 
 who after much thought comes to the root of 
 the matter. "Ask the padres. They know 
 everything." 
 
 "My padre does," returned the child proudly, 
 "but the other padres do not. My padre was 
 sitting with the others in the garden yester 
 day, and they all looked at a big piece of paper 
 with marks on it. There was one long, crooked 
 line with many little dots beside it, and letters 
 besides the dots, and I asked them what it was. 
 Padres Mateo and Luis would not tell me, 
 but Padre Vicente said the line was the King s 
 Highway, and the dots were the Missions, 
 with letters to tell the names." 
 
32 The King s Highway 
 
 "I know. It was a map." said the old Indian 
 wisely. 
 
 "Yes," replied the child, "it was a map of the 
 King s Highway. I asked them what that 
 was, and Padre Vicente said that it was the 
 trail that went past the Mission. Then he said 
 for me run away and not bother the padres 
 any more." 
 
 "And did you obey the good padre then?" 
 
 "Yes," said little Miguel quaintly, "the 
 saints know I always obey! But first I told 
 them that when I grew to be a man I would be 
 a soldier and ride a big, black horse away 
 off, far away on that trail. But Padre Luis 
 grew very angry, and said that when I grew 
 up I should be a priest, but never a cursed 
 soldier! Padre Mateo said so too, but Padre 
 Vicente did not say anything. I went away 
 then, but I do not believe that Padre Luis 
 was right." 
 
 "But why do you think that Padre Vicente 
 knows more that the rest?" puzzled old 
 Rosario. 
 
 "Oh! Because he did not say what he knew 
 nothing about!" said the child sagely. "Padre 
 Luis cannot know what I shall do when I grow 
 to be a man. How can he?" 
 
 "Quien sabe?" questioned old Rosario. "The 
 most holy San Miguel saved you from the 
 
The King s Highway 33 
 
 waves when a very young child, and the saints 
 save people to make of them priests, but never 
 soldiers. No es verdad?" 
 
 "The devil and the saints know!" ejaculated 
 the child piously. Then, after a moment he 
 rose from the ground where he had been sit 
 ting, and threw a handful of green into the 
 basket. "Santa Maria! How I hate the 
 devil!" he remarked irrelevantly. 
 
 "Callate! But but you must not say it so 
 loudly. He might hear and be displeased," 
 warned the old Indian, to whom the Evil One 
 was always an avenging though unseen pres 
 ence. 
 
 "Padre Vicente speaks of the devil when he 
 wills, and I do not believe he cares to please 
 him," said the child naively. "And it is true, 
 Rosario, I do hate the devil. Whenever there 
 is anything wrong done, the devil is at 
 the bottom of it! When Jose and Mariano 
 quarreled and hurt each other last All Saints 
 Day, Padre Vicente said the devil had done 
 it. And when Gabriel ran away, it was the 
 devil that made him do it. And Pico Juarez 
 is not the devil always with him?" Little 
 Miguel paused, then, with the easy transition 
 of a child, asked suddenly: "Shall you carry 
 a candle in the procession tomorrow, Rosario?" 
 
34 The King s Highway 
 
 "No," replied the old Indian sadly, "Rosario 
 is too old to sing any more." 
 
 "Miguel is sorry," said the child impulsively, 
 "for, next to Padre Vicente and his dear Pablo, 
 he loves you." 
 
 The old man smiled. 
 
 "I shall watch you when you march and 
 sing," he said. 
 
 "Buenas gracias, Rosario," returned the boy 
 politely. "I shall look for you. I am to carry 
 the big silver cross. Maria has made me a 
 beautiful robe," he added with pride. 
 
 "It is a sign that you will be a priest, Miguel- 
 ito," said the old man. "I think Padre Luis 
 was right." 
 
 The child laughed. 
 
 "Perhaps," he answered thoughtfully, "but 
 first I shall ride on the King s Highway." 
 * * * 
 
 Over San Juan mountain, the sun rose lurid 
 behind sullen clouds on the morning of the 
 Feast of the Immaculate Conception. There 
 was no breeze, and when the bells rang for 
 sunrise mass, the air was already stifling and 
 sultry. From the fields came the uneasy cry 
 of cattle, answered by herds on the opposite 
 side of the valley. In the trees and vines of the 
 Mission garden, the chattering voices of the 
 birds were silent, and the stillness seemed 
 
The King s Highway 35 
 
 prophetic of impending evil. Flies buzzed in 
 the corridors, and crawled over the white 
 washed walls and carved doorways in black 
 swarms. It was a fit morning for a tragedy. 
 
 Heavy-eyed and sleep-hungry, the people 
 rose from their beds and hurried into the 
 church where mass was to be celebrated. 
 Under the sky, the light of heaven was dim 
 that morning, and the church, lighted only 
 through the towers on the roof, was almost 
 dark. On the pavement crouched a huddled 
 mass of kneeling Indians, muttering over their 
 beads; and from the sanctuary, Our Lady 
 Queen of the Angels smiled down at them 
 across the blaze of lighted candles. Suddenly, 
 from the darkness of the north transept came 
 the opening notes of the glorious Te Deum 
 laudamus, and a procession of white robed 
 neophytes carrying lighted candles, filed into 
 the nave. At the head of the procession, 
 bearing aloft in his hands a tall, silver cross, 
 paced little Miguel. His dark eyes were big 
 and solemn, and, in his white robe, with the 
 sacred emblem in his childish hands, he was 
 like the statue of the little San Luis in the 
 church at San Luis Rey. Slowly the proces 
 sion advanced. 
 
 "O Lord, save Thy people and bless Thine 
 heritage : 
 
36 The King s Highway 
 
 Govern them and lift them up forever!" 
 
 The words fell like a benediction upon the 
 kneeling worshipers. Sweeping upward in a 
 last imploring strain, the music reached its 
 splendid climax, and the last notes died in the 
 arched domes far above. 
 
 In the stillness that followed the chant, 
 Padre Vicente rose from where he knelt before 
 the altar, and stepping to the front of the 
 sanctuary, began the opening words of the 
 mass. He had not finished the first sentence, 
 when a dull roar like distant thunder blotted 
 out the rest of his words. A threatening quiver 
 ran through the building, and the candle 
 flames before the shrine of the Virgin wavered. 
 One of the tall, silver candlesticks, placed too 
 near the edge of the altar, fell over and the 
 flame went out in smoke. Silence reigned 
 for a hundredth part of a moment. The peo 
 ple on the pavement did not stir, and Padre 
 Vicente began again the solemn words of the 
 mass. 
 
 Suddenly, without further warning, a deaf 
 ening roar like the thunder of numberless can 
 non rent the air, and instantly the solid, stone 
 walls of the building reeled in the grip of a 
 terrific earthquake shock. With a horrible 
 noise of grinding stones and falling mortar, 
 the splendid bell tower came crashing through 
 
The King s Highway 37 
 
 the vaulted dome in the roof, and sent the 
 whole mass of masonry down upon the kneel 
 ing worshipers on the pavement. The walls 
 of the sanctuary stood firm, however, and the 
 shock passed as quickly as it had come. 
 
 A mist floated before the eyes of Padre 
 Vicente. Scarcely conscious of what he did, 
 the priest stumbled into the sacristy. There 
 he met the frightened gaze of Padre Mateo, 
 who began to sob and fall to his knees. Then 
 Padre Vicente s vision cleared. Breathing a 
 muttered prayer, he seized his brother priest 
 by the arm and dragged him into the open air. 
 In the sheltered corner of the padres garden, 
 the flowers bloomed in stately rows, and along 
 the tiled paths all was as if death and destruc 
 tion were not holding sway on the other side 
 of the wall. 
 
 Praying as they went, the two, priests bent 
 their trembling steps toward the main entrance 
 of the ruined church. From all directions 
 people came running. Then followed one of 
 those hours of horror that always pass in the 
 wake of every violent disaster. Amid the 
 ruins of the splendid church, and the bodies 
 of the martyred dead, the priests and neo 
 phytes worked like demons to save those who 
 still lived, pinioned under the fallen stones. 
 
 And chief among them all for heroism and 
 
38 The King s Highway 
 
 endurance, was Padre Vicente. Careless of 
 his own danger, he labored under the totter 
 ing walls to save his beloved people who cried 
 to him from under the broken stones. 
 
 "O Lord, save Thy people and mine Thy 
 exceeding great reward and mine ! Do not let 
 them all die not all, O Lord!" he prayed 
 imploringly. 
 
 And when, after an almost superhuman 
 effort, he had rolled away the stone that pinned 
 the limp body of old Rosario to the pavement, 
 a heavy piece of masonry, dislodged from 
 above by the moving of the stone below, fell 
 with terrific force against the priest s right arm 
 and side. Padre Vicente staggered under the 
 blow, and sank to his knees among the broken 
 masonry, his lips moving in prayer. When he 
 rose, his right arm hung limp at his side, but 
 an invincible light burned in his eyes. Stoop 
 ing beside old Rosario, he pillowed the head of 
 the dying man on his knee, and, with his left 
 hand, held the cross before the fast-dimming 
 eyes. The old Indian did not hear all the words 
 of comfort for the dying, but when his darken 
 ing eyes looked up and saw the face of his 
 beloved padre, a beatific smile illuminated 
 his features, and his spirit passed with a sigh. 
 
 Gently Padre Vicente shifted his limp burd 
 en to the pavement. He stooped to gather the 
 
The King s Highway 39 
 
 dead man in his arms to place him on an 
 improvised stretcher offered by two neophytes, 
 then remembered his broken arm, and turned 
 away while another performed the service. 
 For the first time, tears broke from the eyes of 
 Padre Vicente, and rolled down his cheeks. 
 No longer could he take the part of a man 
 in the work, and his heart was sorely tried. 
 Hurriedly he wiped away his tears, and almost 
 unconscious of the pain in his arm, hastened 
 to administer the last rites to an old woman 
 who had been taken from the ruins, and who 
 lay breathing heavily on the ground outside. 
 But, through all that hour of blood and 
 tears among the pathetic ruins of the church 
 he adored and the dead bodies of the people 
 he loved, Padre Vicente knew, with a pain 
 that went through his heart like a knife, that 
 more than anything else to him was the sight 
 of the limp body of a child in a white robe, 
 that old Pablo had carried away over the plaza. 
 Padre Vicente had found the child when he 
 had first entered the church, lying where, 
 struck by a flying fragment, he had fallen 
 over the cross he carried. The priest had 
 stooped and unwrapped the little fingers that 
 still clung to the tall, silver handle. He had 
 placed the still warm body in the out-stretched 
 arms of old Pablo silently, as the old man 
 
40 The King s Highway 
 
 had placed the child in his own arms but a 
 few years before. The priest was not sure 
 that life had gone from the little body, but 
 he feared that the child was dead. His grief 
 was terrible and, with swift self reproach, he 
 blamed himself that this child should mean 
 more to him than all the people that God 
 had given him to watch over. 
 
 After a while the tumult among the ruins 
 grew less. The dead and wounded were 
 carried one by one into the courtyard, until 
 finally they were all gone. Padres Luis and 
 Mateo went with them, but Padre Vicente 
 begged to be left alone for a little while. For 
 a moment he stood looking with dazed eyes 
 at the broken walls and the great hole in the 
 roof that let the light of heaven into the sanct 
 uary. A death-like silence brooded where the 
 cries of the dying had sounded such a short 
 time before. 
 
 Padre Vicente s brain reeled for a moment, 
 and he put one hand to his head. 
 
 "Dead all dead," he muttered as if in a 
 dream. Then he sat down on a broken pilas 
 ter and tried to think. Was it because he 
 was a wretched failure, that, after giving up 
 all riches and friends and love for the sake 
 of the cross, the loss of one child that had 
 happened into his life should mean more than 
 
The King s Highivay 41 
 
 the destruction of his church and the death of 
 his flock? His spirit was as water within him, 
 and he bent his head in silent, agonized prayer. 
 
 "Have mercy upon me, O Lord, for I am 
 human," he prayed. "I heard when Thy Word 
 said that there is no man that hath left house 
 or brethren or sister or father or mother or 
 wife or children or lands for My sake and the 
 gospel s, but he shall receive an hundredfold, 
 and in the world to come, eternal life. I heard, 
 and I left all for Thy sake, and it was all made 
 up to me all that and more. Thy grace has 
 been sufficient for me until now O Lord, 
 give Thy servant strength in this hour of 
 trial !" 
 
 Then he lifted his head and ceased praying. 
 Still there floated before his eyes the vision 
 of the limp body of little Miguel as he had 
 lain only a few hours before, prostrate on 
 the silver cross. Was the child dead, or did 
 he live? If he were dead, God had taken him 
 for His own. If he lived the priest shut his 
 eyes for a moment as if in pain, but it was not 
 his broken arm that hurt him then. Perhaps 
 God had taken him if he were alive. With a 
 feeling of great reverence, Padre Vicente 
 remembered how the child had come to him 
 from the very gate of death, as it were. He 
 recalled with a joy painful in its sweetness, 
 
42 The King s Highway 
 
 how he had loved the child for more than 
 six years the little one had been the very apple 
 of his eye. The other padres had always said 
 that the boy was surely destined for the priest 
 hood that his miraculous rescue from the 
 waves and his sudden advent into the very 
 sanctuary of Holy Church could not mean 
 anything else. Padre Vicente had pondered 
 upon the manner of the child s coming even 
 more than had the others, and had loved him 
 more the child seemed in a peculiar way to 
 belong to him. Yet he had not said anything 
 of giving him to the priesthood. There would 
 be time to determine that, he thought, when 
 the child was old enough to decide for himself. 
 But, though the priest had never wholly ad 
 mitted it to himself, there had been another 
 reason for his silence. Always there had lurk 
 ed in the background the specter of seculariza 
 tion of dispossession and perhaps a love 
 less old age in some far country. And, beside 
 this, all unowned to himself, there had lingered 
 the thought of an old age not loveless if the 
 boy, unbound by priestly vows, were with him 
 to love and to be loved. Miguel to be all his 
 all his! Padre Vicente had given his own 
 life? Was not that enough? 
 
 A smothered cry escaped the lips of the 
 priest as he saw clearly for the first time the 
 
The King s Highway 43 
 
 purport of his unacknowledged thought. He 
 had been putting his will before the will of 
 God Who had surely set His seal upon the 
 child to make him His own dead or alive. 
 Like a flash there came to the priest the 
 words; "and he that loveth son or daughter 
 more than Me is not worthy of Me." He had 
 left all once but once was not enough. For 
 years, secure in the joy of service, he had 
 looked upon the pain of sacrifice as something 
 past and gone, for to Padre Vicente personal 
 hardship had meant nothing. He had seen 
 silver watches and two-wheeled ox-carts taken 
 away from the friars by the padre presidente, 
 who was always jealous of the sanctity of the 
 vow of poverty. Neither trinkets nor the lux 
 ury of wheels meant anything to Padre Vi 
 cente, but love meant a great deal. Was the 
 love of a little child a temptation of the flesh? 
 Perhaps if it went against the will of God. It 
 might be that the good God had taken the 
 child away as the kind padre presidente had 
 taken the baubles from his monks for the 
 good of the soul. 
 
 Rising from his seat on the broken pilaster, 
 Padre Vicente, strong man that he was, tot 
 tered as he made his way over the debris 
 toward the altar, crying in the bitterness of 
 his soul : 
 
44 The King s Highway 
 
 "Thou knowest, O Lord, that I am not 
 worthy to serve Thee! But take not the life 
 of the child because of my sin !" 
 
 Then, flinging himself on his face before the 
 altar where all the candles had gone out, he 
 tried to pray. But all that would come to his 
 lips were the words sung in an uncertain, 
 childish treble along with stronger voices only 
 a few hours ago: 
 
 "O Lord, save Thy people and bless Thine 
 heritage : 
 
 Govern them and lift them up forever!" 
 
 Conscious of the meaning of the prayer in 
 his own heart, the priest repeated the words 
 again and again, and the peace of God, that 
 passeth all understanding, crept into his soul. 
 At last he rose to his feet, his face glorified. 
 Then, as though speaking to One close at his 
 side, he said softly: 
 
 "Again I give Thee Thine own. Dead or 
 alive, the child is Thine." 
 
 Reverently closing the door behind him, 
 Padre Vicente left the church as he had early 
 that morning, by way of the sacristy. All 
 was peace in the padres garden, and now for 
 the first time, the priest knew that his arm 
 gave him great pain. Hastening into the 
 cloister, he found Padre Luis, who set the 
 broken bone and bound it up, wondering, as 
 
The King s Highway 45 
 
 he did so, at the strange light on his brother s 
 face. But of that matter Padre Vicente vouch 
 safed not one word, nor did he ask concerning 
 the child. Instead, he asked about the wound 
 ed neophytes, and when Padre Luis told him 
 that they were calling for him, he would not 
 rest until he had ministered to them. 
 
 After a time, old Maria came to where Padre 
 Vicente sat in the courtyard beside a man 
 whose hurts gave him great pain. Looking 
 at the padre s arm in splints, and then at the 
 glorified expression on his face, the good 
 woman bowed low and crossed herself. 
 
 "The child is awake and calls for the Padre 
 Vicente," she said in an awed tone. 
 
 The expression on the priest s face did not 
 change. He rose and went with the old 
 woman, whose reverence for him was plainly 
 that for a saint. For, had not the good padre 
 stayed in the ruins to pray after everyone else 
 had left? Had not her own sister Juana, 
 peering into the church an hour ago seen him 
 at the altar in an attitude of devotion? And 
 was not his face like that of an angel even 
 now? Unconsciously old Maria sank to her 
 knees before the padre as he entered the room 
 where the child lay. But the priest took her 
 by the hand and helped her to her feet. 
 
46 The King s Highway 
 
 "Daughter, I am human, even as you are," 
 he said. "Peace be with you." 
 
 The old woman stepped back, her reverence 
 all the greater. For, was it not divine humility 
 that made the good padre speak thus ? 
 
 When he learned that the boy was safe 
 that not a bone in his body was broken, and 
 that his reason was whole the priest knelt by 
 the child s bed. 
 
 "Padre Padre Vicente," said the child. "I 
 am all safe. Do not feel sad, padre." 
 
 But the man s face was lifted to the light of 
 the window and the holy joy in his eyes was 
 like that of Abraham, when he knew that God 
 had not required of him the sacrifice of his 
 son Isaac. 
 
 "All everything that he possesses O Lord 
 Thy servant gives everything," he whis 
 pered. 
 
 The child heard. 
 
 "Everything are you talking about the 
 pearl in the story?" he asked sleepily. "I 
 thought the man paid for the pearl a long 
 time ago." 
 
 "No, Miguelito mio," said the padre stead 
 fastly. "People find sometimes that to keep 
 their pearls, they must go on paying for them 
 until they die. And the man I told you about 
 is paying for his pearl still." 
 
The King s Highway 47 
 
 "Oh ! And isn t he sorry yet, padre ?" 
 The priest patted the child s hand gently. 
 "No" he said. "No, Miguel of my heart. 
 He is not sorry, for he still has the pearl." 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 The Champion of the Padre 
 
 A ROSS the green fields and vineyards 
 of little San Juan valley filed the 
 colorful procession of the seasons, 
 until, six years after the tragedy of the Mission, 
 a soft day in early April found Captain Fer 
 nando Ybarra and his troop of cavalrymen 
 on their way from San Diego to Capistrano. 
 The air was full of the eternal promise of 
 spring that day, and on either side of the 
 King s Highway, the fields were lush with 
 grass and starred with flowers. All along the 
 mesas and the broken spurs of the hills, gleam 
 ed the far-flung glory of yellow and white and 
 royal purple ; and everywhere the red-gold of 
 poppies spread the altar-cloth of San Pascual. 
 Surely the day, and the gorgeous pageantry 
 of the mesas together with the jangle of spurs 
 and the rasp of saddle leather on the King s 
 Highway were enough to set anyone s veins 
 on fire with joy; but Ybarra, and Lieutenant 
 Terrazzas riding at the head of their troops 
 felt none of these things. Only, as they neared 
 San Juan, Ybarra noticed with greedy eyes 
 
The King s Highivay 49 
 
 the fat cattle and sheep on the hills, and the 
 rich wheat-fields on the rolling mesas. 
 
 "Dios mio! To think that all these riches 
 belong to the lazy padres who eat their heads 
 off in the Missions! It is a shame that so 
 much land should go to waste !" he exclaimed 
 to his companion. 
 
 "Santisima! But you are right! God grant 
 that it may not be so always!" returned Ter- 
 razzas piously. 
 
 The other laughed. 
 
 "I pray that the good God may answer 
 your prayer soon," he said with a shrug and 
 a wink. "Who knows but we may all have a 
 fat share before long?" 
 
 But Terrazzas, instead of answering, leaned 
 over and caught the other s bridle rein. 
 
 "Look where you are going, and for the love 
 of all the saints, tell me what that is!" he 
 whispered hoarsely. 
 
 And then the troop halted suddenly where, 
 a little way south of San Juan, the road comes 
 to the foot of a long hill. There in the middle 
 of the road, outlined against the deep blue 
 of the sky at the crest of the hill, stood a 
 horse and his rider motionless, waiting. The 
 horseman was only a boy, but he held his 
 head high, and he sat his horse like a king. 
 
50 The King s Highway 
 
 Ybarra took a sharp look at the proud 
 figure, then gave the order to go ahead. 
 
 "It is only a boy but, Madre de Dios, he 
 gave me a fright," he remarked to Terrazzas as 
 the troop walked their horses up the hill. 
 
 "Caramba! But he sits his horse so like 
 a man, and he might have been " 
 
 "Pico Juarez, with a troop of horsemen 
 waiting over the hill," said Ybarra jocosely, 
 and rode on up the slope. 
 
 But the boy at the crest did not make way 
 for the troop. Instead, he lifted his right arm 
 in a commanding gesture. 
 
 "Halt!" he cried in a clear voice. 
 
 Scarcely knowing why he did so, Ybarra 
 reined in his mount, and the cavalcade came 
 to an abrupt stop. 
 
 "Who are you, and where are you going?" 
 asked the boy, without budging an inch from 
 his original position. 
 
 A spirit of banter seized hold of Ybarra, 
 and doffing his hat he bowed low. 
 
 "I am Captain Fernando Ybarra, and these 
 are my soldiers. We are on our way to San 
 Juan Capistrano." 
 
 "Do the padres know that you are coming?" 
 asked the child. 
 
 "They have been commanded by the Cover- 
 
The King s Highway 51 
 
 nor to quarter us until further orders," answer 
 ed Ybarra politely. 
 
 "Then you may pass," he said graciously, 
 and wheeling his horse, he fell into line at 
 Ybarra s left bridle rein. 
 
 "And who are you, if I may venture to ask ?" 
 inquired Ybarra, glancing curiously at the 
 boy s handsome features, well-worn home 
 spun suit, and the spirited horse he rode so 
 well. 
 
 "I am Don Miguel de Dios Artillaga, and I 
 live at the Mission with my padre," said the 
 boy with dignity. 
 
 "And what are you doing here, most worthy 
 Don Miguel?" went on Ybarra. 
 
 Miguel shot the other a swift glance from 
 under dark brows, as if he suspected him of 
 making fun. 
 
 "I am watching the King s Highway," he 
 said proudly. "It is well for you that you 
 halted when you did, or I should not have let 
 you pass." 
 
 Ybarra made no answer, but began chewing 
 his mustachios at a furious rate. The boy 
 looked at him suspiciously. 
 
 "Why do you chew the ends of your mus 
 tachios that way?" he demanded. 
 
 "It is a habit that I have sometimes," said 
 
52 The King s Highway 
 
 Ybarra in a queer voice, and Terrazzas choked 
 with laughter. 
 
 "It is a very bad habit, and you had better 
 try to cure it," said little Miguel. "What is 
 that other man laughing at?" he queried 
 sharply. 
 
 "He is not laughing, he is choking," said 
 Ybarra, with a wink to the man on his right. 
 
 "Is that a habit too?" inquired the child in 
 nocently. "If it is, it is a very bad one. Quit 
 gnawing your mustachios that way I don t 
 like it." 
 
 "Are you going to be a soldier when you 
 grow to be a man, Don Miguel?" asked 
 Ybarra, changing the subject suddenly. 
 
 "A soldier? Santa Maria, no!" exclaimed 
 the boy. "I am going to be a priest." 
 
 "Vilgate Dios! You a priest you who sit 
 your horse like a general of armies ! How can 
 that be?" 
 
 "The devil and the saints know that it is 
 true!" ejaculated Miguel piously. Then he 
 added : "and Padre Vicente says it must be 
 true because San Miguel saved me from the 
 waves." 
 
 "Aha!" sneered Ybarra. "I thought it was 
 the padres who put the idea into your head. 
 Who would be a fat devil of a priest when 
 he could be anything else?" 
 
The King s Highway 53 
 
 The boy turned upon him in a sudden fury. 
 
 "Take that back you cursed dog of a 
 soldier! Take back those words you said!" 
 he cried, his face white with rage. 
 
 Ybarra affected surprise. 
 
 "What do you mean, boy?" he asked 
 haughtily. 
 
 "That the padres are better men than you 
 know anything about lying son of the devil 
 that you are!" shrieked Miguel. "My padre 
 could whip ten like you !" 
 
 "Dios mio! What a little coyote it is!" 
 sniffed Ybarra, growing angry in his turn. 
 "Let your dog of a padre try to whip me if he 
 likes ! He will not find it easy work, I can 
 tell you!" 
 
 Miguel looked sullenly at the man by his 
 side. His rage was over, but a cold hate 
 gleamed in his dark eyes. 
 
 "You should have been here last Sunday," 
 he said in a scornful voice. "Juan Mendez, 
 a soldier twice as big as you are, from the 
 presidio at San Diego, was drunk. He walked 
 into the church after mass and insulted my 
 padre Padre Vicente. Padre Vicente said 
 nothing when the man s words were all for 
 him, but when the dog spat at the foot of the 
 holy altar Santisima! But you should have 
 been there to see!" 
 
54 The King s Highway 
 
 "What was it?" asked Ybarra, curious in 
 spite of himself. 
 
 "Well may you ask what was it," returned 
 the boy proudly. "Padre Vicente gave the man 
 one blow with his fist a golpe such as you 
 have never seen! The man is in bed yet, and 
 the padre prays for his recovery." 
 
 "Santa Maria de Dios! What a padre it is!" 
 mocked Ybarra. "We must be careful what 
 we say, Terrazzas, in this priest s hole !" 
 
 "Yes, and be careful what you say now to 
 the boy," growled Terrazzas, with a scowl on 
 his dark face. "You will get us all in a pretty 
 mess someday, with your sharp tongue." 
 
 But little Miguel, digging the spurs into the 
 glossy sides of his mount, left the captain and 
 his troop, and dashed ahead on the road to 
 the Mission. Tossing the bridle rein over his 
 horse s head, he slipped from the saddle, and 
 burst into the quiet inclosure of the apple 
 orchard where Padre Vicente was at work 
 among the blossoming trees. Then he threw 
 his arms around the priest s neck, and sobbed 
 out his story against the man s rough gown. 
 
 "Do not cry, Miguelito mio," said the padre 
 gently. "Keep away from the man while he is 
 here. Say nothing to him, and he will not 
 bother you." 
 
 "Yes, but but he said that you that you 
 
The King s Highway 55 
 
 he called you a something terrible !" sobbed 
 Miguel. 
 
 "I know I know, but never mind him," 
 said the priest tenderly. "He does not know 
 any better. Promise me that you will not 
 get into any more quarrels with the man. 
 Promise, Miguel." Even in his tenderness, 
 Padre Vicente was stern, and the child looked 
 up wonderingly through his tears. 
 
 "I hate to do it, but I promise," he said. 
 
 "That is my good Miguel," said Padre Vi 
 cente. Then he lifted his head as the clatter 
 of hoofs and the jangle of harness came to 
 his ears. 
 
 "Run away nifio, while I go to meet the 
 soldiers," he said gravely. 
 
 Padre Vicente hurried through the orchard 
 toward the cloisters, and little Miguel walked 
 slowly over to the corner of an adobe wall 
 where he found old Pablo, and related to him 
 his morning s adventure. 
 
 "And if I had not promised, I should strike 
 that man across the face!" he cried, as he 
 finished. "Santisima, but he is wicked to speak 
 of my padre like that!" 
 
 "Si," agreed old Pablo, "he must be a very 
 devil to speak so! But the good God will 
 punish him, Don Miguel, God will punish 
 him." 
 
56 The King s Highway 
 
 "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." 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 Arms and a Man 
 
 IT 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 rancheria alike lay silent 
 in the dim light of early day. Only, some 
 where in the orange groves to the east, a sleep 
 less 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 glim 
 mer 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 
 
58 The King s Highway 
 
 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 revo 
 lution 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- 
 
The King s Highway 59 
 
 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 
 
60 The King s Highway 
 
 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 foot 
 steps 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 
 
The King s Highivay 61 
 
 face resolutely toward the Mission and his 
 people. The day had come. 
 
 When mass was over that morning, and 
 the day s work begun, the sun was still low in 
 the east. Falling through the corridor arches 
 on the west side of the courtyard, the sun 
 light slanted full across the long seat where 
 Miguel sat, busy at his daily task. In the 
 deep-recessed window behind the seat, was 
 an old silver inkstand. Into this the boy 
 dipped his quill from time to time, and mean 
 while traced laboriously on a sheet of paper, 
 a score from the leather-bound chant-book 
 open on the seat beside him. 
 
 "O santisimo cuerpo de Jesus sacramentido." 
 
 Slowly, in a sing-song tone, the boy chanted 
 the words he had printed. So absorbed was he 
 in what he was doing, that he did not hear 
 the clank of spurs on the square-tiled floor, 
 but when a shadow fell across his score, he 
 looked up. 
 
 "May I sit down, Don Miguel?" asked 
 Antonio Terrazzas. 
 
 Something in the man s frank, winning 
 smile must have pleased the boy, for he pushed 
 aside the chant-book to make more room on 
 the seat. 
 
 "Please sit down," he said with dignity, 
 then added naively : "you are not the man who 
 
62 The King s Highway 
 
 spoke evil of my padre, so I may talk with 
 you." 
 
 Antonio Terrazzas sat down carelessly, un 
 covering his head as he did so. He was a 
 young man, not more than twenty-one, rather 
 good looking in a bold way, with deep-set, 
 black eyes, heavy brows, and a quantity of 
 dark hair that curled about his face. Miguel 
 thought him extremely handsome, and glanced 
 enviously at the heavy, steel spurs he wore, 
 and the brace of pistols at his belt. 
 
 "What are you writing there?" questioned 
 the lieutenant, by way of polite conversation. 
 
 "Oh, that is the chant-book," said Miguel 
 without enthusiasm. "I am copying a score 
 for the choir." 
 
 "Do you like it to copy songs?" inquired 
 Terrazzas idly. 
 
 The child was silent for a moment. 
 
 "Well, not particularly," he answered hon 
 estly. "But it is my work. You know that the 
 saints have work for everyone to do." 
 
 Terrazzas smiled. 
 
 "Read me what you have written," he said. 
 
 "You would not care to hear it it is para 
 alzar la Hostia, " said Miguel. "You have 
 heard it many times." 
 
 "So I have," agreed Terrazzas absently. He 
 knew that the boy had been chosen for the 
 
The King s Highway 63 
 
 priesthood, and he was somewhat curious to 
 know his attitude in the matter. Antonio 
 Terrazzas himself was of gentle blood, and 
 had been brought up in the faith ; but as a 
 matter of fact, he had never given the Church 
 more than a passing thought. Of course there 
 were always priests, just as there were always 
 doctors and lawyers ; but why any man should 
 care to enter holy orders had not occurred to 
 him. 
 
 "And so you are going to be a priest," he 
 said presently, crossing his legs the while, and 
 stretching them out in the sun. 
 
 "Si," said the boy quietly, "when I am old 
 enough." 
 
 "Did you choose it yourself, or did the 
 padres choose it for you?" pursued Terraz 
 zas after a moment. 
 
 The boy looked up quickly. 
 
 "The holy saints chose me," he answered 
 with dignity. "That is what the padres say." 
 
 What the saints said and what the padres 
 said might have been all one to Terrazzas, but 
 of that lack of faith he wisely said nothing. 
 
 "Then I suppose you would rather be a 
 priest than anything else?" 
 
 " Yes," assented Miguel, "since that is what 
 the saints have said." Then, after a moment 
 he added : "I used to want to be a soldier 
 
64 The King s Highway 
 
 and ride on the King s Highway. But that 
 was a long time ago, and I was young then." 
 Terrazzas smiled at that, but the child did not 
 see. "Before the earthquake," Miguel went 
 on, "Padre Vicente did not say that I might 
 not be a soldier, though the other padres did. 
 But after the saints saved me from death in 
 the earthquake, Padre Vicente too said that 
 the good God had surely chosen me. So that 
 is the way of it." 
 
 Terrazzas looked meditatively at the strong 
 body and dark, handsome face of the boy on 
 the seat beside him. 
 
 "You were not meant for a priest," he said 
 slowly. "You were meant for a soldier! 
 Santisima! But you look as if you had fight 
 ing blood in your veins!" 
 
 A strange look passed across the boy s face. 
 
 "Dios sabe," he said calmly: "Perhaps I 
 have/ 
 
 "How is that?" inquired Terrazzas curiously. 
 "Don t you know?" 
 
 "No," said Miguel simply, "you see it was 
 like this. Twelve years ago next San Miguel, 
 my father and mother and I were wrecked 
 in a little boat on the coast below here. They 
 were both killed, and I was saved by a miracle. 
 No one ever knew where I came from." 
 
 Terrazzas sat up suddenly, and his eyes 
 
The King s Highway 65 
 
 sparkled. He was young, and the glamor of 
 things had not all rubbed off yet. 
 
 "Santa Maria!" he cried, "but you may be 
 the heir to a noble estate! You should not 
 be a priest, Don Miguel your people may be 
 looking for you." 
 
 A gleam shot from the boy s eyes, and pass 
 ed as quickly as it had come. He had thought 
 of that before. 
 
 "I am nearly thirteen years old now," he 
 said doggedly, "and they have not come yet." 
 
 "But that is nothing they may come any 
 day!" returned Terrazzas. "You should not 
 waste your time thinking they will never 
 come," he finished rather lamely, remembering 
 Ybarra s disrespect of the day before. Then 
 he added cautiously: "Of course it is a good 
 thing to be a priest." 
 
 "Yes," agreed the child readily, "it is. And 
 if one could only be a priest like Padre Vicente, 
 it would be glorious ! When the sun comes 
 through the roof while he is saying mass, he 
 looks like a saint he is splendid! And the 
 sanctuary is like heaven, so bright with gold 
 on the walls that I can hardly see sometimes 
 I have to shut my eyes! And the people I 
 think they would worship him on their knees 
 if he would let them ! Oh, he is wonderful, 
 and I love him ! But sometimes I am afraid 
 
66 The King s Highway 
 
 I can never be like him," he finished wist 
 fully. 
 
 "You were fitter to be a soldier," said Ter- 
 razzas knowingly. Then he drew from the 
 holster at his belt a pistol, and held it up in 
 the sun. 
 
 "What do you think of that, Don Miguel?" 
 he asked irrelevantly. 
 
 The glint of polished steel caught the boy s 
 eye, and he held his hands out eagerly for the 
 weapon, while the chant-book slipped unheed 
 ed to the floor. 
 
 "O let me take it just for a minute," he 
 pleaded. 
 
 "Be careful it is loaded," said Terrazzas, 
 and placed the pistol in the boy s hand. 
 
 With great care the child sighted along the 
 short barrel, and fondled the handle lovingly. 
 Then, with a sigh, he made as if he would re 
 store the weapon to its owner. 
 
 "It must be fine to shoot with a pistol like 
 that. I never have done it," he said wishfully. 
 
 "Then come with me, and you shall try," 
 replied the lieutenant. 
 
 Instantly the boy was on his feet. 
 
 "Where shall we go?" he demanded eagerly. 
 
 "This way," answered the man, amused at 
 the child s unfeigned delight, and together the 
 two left the courtyard by a passage leading to 
 
The King s Highway 67 
 
 the western corridor. From there they walked 
 southward around the church, and halted per 
 haps a dozen yards away from a group of mot 
 tled sycamore trees. 
 
 "There," said Terrazzas, pointing to a knot 
 on the trunk of one of the trees where a branch 
 had been broken off. "Do you see that spot?" 
 
 Miguel nodded. 
 
 "Muy bien," said the man. "Take good aim 
 and hit the spot." 
 
 With a clear eye the boy took aim, then 
 pulled the trigger with a steady hand. The 
 ball sang through the air and buried itself in 
 the bark an inch below the knot. 
 
 "I missed!" he cried regretfully. "Let me 
 try again, and I will hit the mark !" 
 
 "Here is the other pistol," said Terrazzas. 
 "Try again." 
 
 Miguel tried again, and this time the ball 
 just grazed the lower rim of the knot. 
 
 "Almost !" cried the boy joyously. "I know 
 I could do it if I only had the chance to try 
 enough !" 
 
 "You shall have the chance," said Terazzas, 
 generously. "You have an eye like a hawk. I 
 will teach you to shoot if the padres permit," 
 he added. 
 
 "I know Padre Vicente will let me," returned 
 Miguel, blissfully. Then, at mention of the 
 
68 The King s Highway 
 
 padres, he suddenly remembered the neglected 
 chant-book in the courtyard. 
 
 "I must go back to my work I had forgot 
 ten it," he said with reluctance. 
 
 "Very well, then," answered Terrazzas, 
 kindly. "We shall meet some other time." 
 
 "Some other time," echoed Miguel happily, 
 and ran back to the courtyard. There he went 
 to work again, diligently copying the score 
 from the old chant-book. But between his eyes 
 and the page there floated again the vision of 
 his childhood a trail stretching on and on into 
 the charmed distance, and a man with pistols 
 at his belt, mounted on a big, black horse, rid 
 ing, always riding on the King s Highway. 
 The seed sown no one knew when or where 
 by a soldier grandfather in Old Spain, may 
 be had been well watered that morning; and, 
 though little Miguel did not know it, he stood 
 in great danger of forgetting that it was a 
 soldier who had insulted Padre Vicente. 
 
 The days that followed were very happy 
 ones for the little boy. For, in spite of the 
 protests of Padre Esteban, who was young and 
 zealous, Padre Vicente gave his permisison for 
 Miguel to learn to shoot. With the wisdom 
 born of intuition and experience, Padre Vicente 
 knew that the thing a child is denied is usually 
 the thing he wants most. And he did not wish 
 
The King s Highway 69 
 
 Miguel to choose the Narrow Way because he 
 was strictly forbidden to walk anywhere else. 
 So, though he saw what the companionship of 
 Terazzas might mean to the boy, he gave his 
 consent to it. The good God would not suffer 
 His chosen one to be turned aside, thought the 
 priest, and daily offered up strong prayers for 
 Miguel s safety. 
 
 Meanwhile, Miguel roamed the hills in com 
 pany with Terrazzas. He learned to shoot, to 
 shoulder a musket, and to command imaginary 
 armies. He was more wildly happy than he 
 had ever been before, and in a short time he 
 came to feel for Terrazzas a love that 
 amounted almost to a passion. Under these 
 conditions, it was not strange that, when the 
 boy carried the processional cross in the church 
 the kneeling worshipers were an army in bat 
 tle array to him, and the holy emblem he bore 
 was a military standard. Beaming with pride, 
 he would relate to Padre Vicente the soldierly 
 exploits of Terrazzas, and Padre Vicente 
 would listen patiently. It was a good thing, 
 thought the priest, for the boy to get an idea 
 of the world from some one outside monas 
 tery walls. Padre Vicente himself had been a 
 man of the world before he had been a priest, 
 and was the stronger for it now. But he did 
 
70 The King s Highway 
 
 not neglect to pray that all might be for the 
 glory of God. 
 
 As for Antonio Terrazzas, he had started 
 out to amuse himself, but, as time went on, he 
 become conscious of a growing tenderness for 
 the quaint, little fellow who paid him such sin 
 cere homage. If some one had asked his mo 
 tives in the matter he probably could not have 
 given any direct answer ; though it may have 
 been a certain love of fair play that made him 
 want to give the child a taste of life before he 
 should take upon himself the vows of a priest. 
 As was said before, the glamor had not all 
 rubbed off things yet for Terrazzas. At any 
 rate, when the word came in July that the 
 troops were to go south again, Terrazzas was 
 sincerely sorry to part with the boy. 
 
 "Adios, Don Miguel," he said tenderly, as he 
 held the boy s hand in parting. "I shall never 
 forget you, and I don t want you to forget me." 
 
 Miguel winked hard. It was not fitting that 
 the friend of a soldier should shed tears. 
 
 "Adios," he said firmly. "I shall never for- 
 get." 
 
 Then, as the troop clattered out of the yard 
 with a great noise of hoofs and jangling har 
 ness, Miguel ran after them to the south gate 
 of the Mission wall, his heart beating high. 
 No, he would never forget. How he waved 
 
The King s Highway 71 
 
 his hand, and how he strained his eyes after 
 them ; forgetful of Ybarra, who had insulted 
 the padre, remembering only Terrazzas, his 
 friend! At last the horsemen disappeared as 
 they had come, over the hill on the King s 
 Highway. Slowly and sadly the boy made his 
 way back to the Mission. Terrazzas had come 
 and gone. He might never pass that way 
 again, but in the heart of Miguel he had left 
 his mark behind him. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 The Heart of Miguel 
 
 A TER the departure of Terrazzas the 
 days passed very slowly for Miguel. 
 He was not so light-hearted as he had 
 been, and he did not laugh so often. Padre 
 Vicente saw this, and he was troubled. 
 
 "Are you tired of staying with the old padre 
 now that the good lieutenant is gone, Miguel- 
 ito?" he asked one day, as the two sat on the 
 long seat in the courtyard. 
 
 Miguel turned reproachful eyes upon the 
 priest. 
 
 "You know that I love you more than any 
 one else in all the world," he cried fervently. 
 Then, throwing his arms around the man s 
 neck, he kissed him with a love that was not 
 to be doubted. 
 
 But Padre Vicente was not to be satisfied. 
 With an anxious light in his eyes, he watched 
 the changing expressions on Miguel s face, and 
 asked himself if he had been entirely wise in 
 letting the boy be with the soldier so much. 
 But always he clung to the conviction that 
 God had chosen Miguel to be the help of the 
 Church in New Spain, and through the Church, 
 
The King s Highway 73 
 
 the protection of the helpless people of the 
 land. Surely God would not allow His chosen 
 one to be moved. Meanwhile, Miguel was 
 thinking thoughts he did not dare to tell the 
 padre, and, boy that he was, a struggle was 
 going on in his soul. 
 
 Then, on a warm night in late July, there 
 came to pass a strange thing. For some unex 
 plained reason, perhaps because the moonlight 
 streaming into his window was so bright, 
 Miguel wakened suddenly to see a man kneel 
 ing at the foot of his bed. The man s face was 
 lifted to the light of the window, and Miguel 
 could see that it was Padre Vicente. Fas 
 cinated by the expression on the face he knew 
 so well, the boy could not stir, and lay as if in 
 a trance. The white glory of the moon slanted 
 through the recessed window, and gleamed 
 palely on the sculptured Christ in the hands 
 of the kneeling man. At first his words were 
 inaudible ; then they grew plainer, and Miguel 
 understood what he was saying. 
 
 "Keep the people of Thine heritage, O Lord, 
 and let them not be scattered," prayed Padre 
 Vicente, his strong face pale in the white 
 moonlight. 
 
 That prayer Miguel knew of old. He had 
 heard it on the lips of the padre many times ; 
 and it is to be doubted if it would have made a 
 
74 The King s Highway 
 
 very great impression upon him now if it had 
 not been for what followed. The padre went 
 on, innocent of any hearer save the One to 
 Whom he addressed his petition. 
 
 "Send Thy Spirit upon the one I have dedi 
 cated to Thee," he whispered, "and grant that 
 he shall keep my people safe from harm." 
 Then an expression of agonized pleading 
 passed across his face. "Take the boy for Thy 
 service, and let not the heart of Thy servant 
 be broken in his old age," he prayed fervently. 
 Then he dropped his head in his hands and 
 was silent. 
 
 Miguel lay motionless as a statue, but his 
 heart was beating so that he could scarcely 
 breathe. Never before had he heard the padre 
 pray like that. Always when Miguel had 
 heard his petitions, they had been for other 
 people, for the Church, but never for himself. 
 But now he prayed that his heart might not be 
 broken in his old age. And what was it that 
 was going to break the padre s heart? It was 
 that Miguel should not enter the service of 
 Holy Church. With a shiver the boy realized 
 that. Padre Vicente had never told him that 
 his heart would break if he did not choose to 
 become a priest. He had said that the saints 
 had chosen him, that the Church needed him, 
 but he had never said anything more personal 
 
The King s Highway 75 
 
 than that he himself would be very happy to 
 see Miguel a priest. But this was a different 
 matter to break the padre s heart! The call 
 of the King s Highway might lure Miguel from 
 the service of all the Churches in Christendom ; 
 but never, never could it persuade him to break 
 the heart of Padre Vicente Padre Vicente, the 
 man he loved as no other boy had ever loved 
 any other man, with a passion amounting al 
 most to worship ! No, it could never make him 
 do that ! The boy was so strongly moved, that 
 he was afraid that he would cry out and disturb 
 the man who still knelt at the foot of the bed, 
 his face buried in his hands. 
 
 But, long after the priest had risen and 
 walked softly from the room, Miguel lay with 
 out moving a muscle, his face set in strange 
 lines. Then suddenly he fell to sobbing, and 
 after a time cried himself to sleep. 
 
 Very early in the morning Miguel woke, and 
 dressing hurriedly, went out to find Padre 
 Vicente. The priest was not in his room, but 
 perhaps he w r as in the garden. Miguel would 
 see. Hastening along the corridor, he entered 
 the garden, when Padre Vicente, coming out 
 of the sacristy, saw him. It was very early. 
 The Angelus had not yet rung, and the priest 
 looked surprised to see the boy there so soon. 
 
 "Good morning, Miguel !" he exclaimed. 
 
76 The King s Highway 
 
 "You are up early! Did you want me?" A 
 bright smile illumined the padre s features, 
 that bore no trace of his midnight vigil, and the 
 boy marveled. How he loved the padre, and 
 what would he not do to please him ! 
 
 "Padre," said Miguel adoringly, "padre, I 
 have been thinking. I am thirteen years old. 
 Is that too young to begin to study to be a 
 priest? I should like to learn some things 
 before I go to Mexico. Can I begin now, 
 padre?" 
 
 The look of joy that overspread the priest s 
 face almost frightened Miguel. Placing his 
 arms about the boy s shoulders, the man gazed 
 searchingly into his eyes. The look of fervent 
 devotion there would have been enough to sat 
 isfy anyone. Padre Vicente did not question 
 its object, and he was satisfied. 
 
 "The good God has been very kind to me, 
 Miguel," he said, gently. "He has given me 
 the desire of my heart. No, hijo mio, you are 
 not too young. We will begin the studies this 
 very day !" 
 
 But, had the padre known, the seed sown, 
 no one knew when or where, and watered so 
 well by the coming of Terrazzas, was not dead. 
 Another was growing by its side, and for a 
 time it was overshadowed ; but the master pas 
 sion was not yet. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 The Way of All the Earth 
 
 ArREAT many things can happen in 
 eight years, especially in a time of 
 revolution. And from 1818 to 1826 a 
 great many things did happen in Alta Califor 
 nia. Every shock of internal dissension in 
 Mexico was felt there as well; and the King s 
 Highway, built for the sandalled feet of friars 
 and the march of the Mission guards, was a 
 byway now for soldier of fortune and greedy 
 politician. Mexico was full of wars and rumors 
 of wars, and the air was thick with plots and 
 political intrigue. Cunning schemers had their 
 eyes upon the fat of the land, and the secular 
 ization of the Missions seemed imminent. 
 
 Therefore, when early in 1821, Governor 
 Sola made public the decree turning over the 
 Mission churches to the Mexican bishop, 
 Payeras, then padre presidente, said that he 
 was ready to make the change. The Missions 
 were not ready, but what difference did that 
 make? The padre presidente could not do 
 anything else. However, when the matter was 
 referred to the bishop, he said that he already 
 had too much to occupy his attention, and that 
 
78 The King s Highway 
 
 as far as he was concerned, the California 
 Franciscans could stay where they were. 
 Later in the same year, Agustin Fernandez 
 de San Vicente came from Mexico to Monterey 
 to oversee the change in the government. But 
 as no one there seemed to care what happened 
 next, he found nothing to worry about, and 
 proceeded to elect a new governor without 
 delay. 
 
 By 1825 the Mexican Republic was fairly 
 well secured; and in late October of the same 
 year, Jose Maria Echeandia came to California 
 to take charge of the government. According 
 to Echeandia, the Missions were not ready to 
 secularize yet; nor would they be for some 
 time to come. Thus secularization was de 
 ferred for a time. Yet, over the head of every 
 loyal Franciscan in Alta California it still hung 
 like the sword of Damocles, suspended by a 
 hair and ready to fall at any moment. 
 
 The year 1826 found things at San Juan 
 Capistrano very much as they had been for 
 years. If it was a hardship to quarter govern 
 ment troops and submit to government requisi 
 tions of money and supplies, the padres learned 
 that there was little use, in protest. The In 
 dians tilled the fields as before, and obeyed the 
 voice of the Mission bells, but since 1812 there 
 had never been so many of them. San Juan 
 
The King s Highway 79 
 
 Capistrano was declining. The padres knew 
 this better than any one else. However, there 
 was nothing to do but to remain faithful ; and 
 this they did to the best of their ability. 
 
 Padre Esteban had been transferred to San 
 Luis Rey late in 1825, and as yet no one had 
 taken his place. As for Padre Vicente, he still 
 served, in company with Padre Luis, who was 
 now over eighty years of age, and very feeble. 
 Thus, responsibility came to bear more heavily 
 than ever upon the broad shoulders of Padre 
 Vicente ; and he carried it as he had always 
 carried all his burdens, cheerfully. It was a 
 hard thing for the priest to see the decline of 
 the Mission for which he had sacrificed so 
 much, and into which he had built the best 
 years of his life. For he knew now that de 
 cline was sure, and no longer did he struggle 
 against the inevitable. He had fought a good 
 fight, and he had no regrets. But, as men 
 must always have something to look forward 
 to, Padre Vicente still had his dreams. He 
 could not give up all hope for the final triumph 
 of the cause he loved so well. If the Missions 
 were to be transformed into parish churches, 
 and the Indian communities into pueblos, then, 
 argued Padre Vicente, not illogically, a great 
 deal would depend upon the parish priests. 
 And was not Miguel, already learned in much 
 
80 The King s Highway 
 
 of the knowledge of the Church, almost ready 
 to start for the priests college in the City of 
 Mexico? Blinded by his passion for the work 
 of the Missions and his love for Miguel, Padre 
 Vicente never suspected that the boy s devo 
 tion was for him rather than for the Church. 
 Therefore he was still very happy in his dream. 
 The background of the vision had shifted a 
 little, but it was the same dream still. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Then, late in April of 1826, when all the hills 
 were green, came a body of cavalrymen riding 
 from San Diego to San Francisco, and stopped 
 at San Juan Mission. One of their number, 
 an officer, was too ill to go farther, they said 
 he should never have left San Diego. He 
 was sick with a fever that he had contracted 
 in the lowlands of Mexico a short time before, 
 and even now he scarcely knew what he was 
 doing. Would the padres take him in and care 
 for him? The padres would. Tenderly two 
 stalwart Indians carried the sick man into the 
 Mission a young fellow, apparently under 
 thirty years of age, with deep-set black eyes 
 and heavy, dark hair, that curled around the 
 temples. They put the young soldier down in 
 the western corridor ; and when Padre Vicente 
 saw his face, he knew that the man was An 
 tonio Terrazzas. Miguel recognized his old 
 
The King s Highway 81 
 
 friend, too, and Padre Luis and old Pablo, his 
 wife Maria, and many of the Indians remem 
 bered the man who had taught Miguel to shoot 
 eight years ago. 
 
 But Terrazzas recognized no one. So sick 
 was he that he could scarcely hold his head up. 
 Gently they put him to bed in a quiet room off 
 the courtyard, and made him as comfortable as 
 they could. But, though the padres and the 
 wise, old Indian women exhausted all their 
 simple skill in his behalf, nothing seemed of 
 any effect in breaking the fever that was slowly 
 but surely sapping his strength. For days the 
 young man would lie in a stupor ; hearing noth 
 ing, seeing nothing, knowing no one. Then 
 times of delirium would come to him, when he 
 would stare wildly around the room, his eyes 
 bright with fever, and talk rapidly in discon 
 nected sentences that no one could understand. 
 The padres and Candelaria, the Indian woman 
 who nursed the man, said many fervent pray 
 ers in his behalf, and burned many candles ; 
 but it seemed that the saints did not hear, for 
 Antonio Terrazzas did not get better. 
 
 For three weeks he lay sick ; and during all 
 that time he had not one rational moment. 
 Then, not long after sunrise on a morning in 
 early May, he opened his eyes and looked 
 around the room intelligently for the first time 
 
82 The King s Highway 
 
 since he had come there. Just to open his eyes 
 and close them again that was all. Then he 
 lay still again, for he was very weak. So weak 
 he was, in fact, that he scarcely realized that 
 he had a body at all. He could hardly lift his 
 his little finger, but his brain was as clear as it 
 had been on that morning, years ago, when 
 he sat with little Miguel on the long seat in 
 the courtyard. He knew that he was in a place 
 of rest, and he knew that he had come there to 
 die. With a certain curious feeling of detach 
 ment he meditated on the latter fact, and won 
 dered that it did not trouble him in the least. 
 
 For some time Terrazzas lay looking at the 
 room with his eyes shut. He could do this, 
 because that single flutter of the eyelids had 
 printed the picture of it all on his brain, much 
 as the striking of a clock that one hears, but 
 does not listen to, repeats itself in the memory 
 afterward. The room was like others common 
 in the Missions and ranch houses of Alta Cali 
 fornia. The floor was paved with small, dia 
 mond-shaped tiles ; and the white-washed 
 adobe walls were pierced on opposite sides of 
 the room by recessed windows that faced each 
 other and opened outdoors in one direction 
 and into a courtyard in the other. In this case, 
 the east window opened directly outdoors, so 
 that the morning sun shone full into the room. 
 
The King s Highway 83 
 
 Filtering through a vine loaded with Cas- 
 tilian roses, it fell on the white walls in round 
 pools of pink light that quivered like the re 
 flection from gently rippling water. 
 
 The room was scantily furnished, but very 
 clean. Save for the rawhide bed on which the 
 sick man lay, the only articles of furniture 
 were a leather-bottomed chair by the window, 
 and a little, square table with some vials and 
 a brass candlestick on it. The bed was in the 
 northwest corner of the room, facing the east, 
 so that the first thing Terrazzas had seen when 
 he opened his eyes had been a smoke-black 
 ened niche in the wall by the east window. In 
 the niche stood a little statuette of San Jose, 
 a half-burned candle before it. Terrazzas 
 wondered idly how many candles they had 
 burned for him. However, it mattered very 
 little how many, he thought, for he was going 
 to die now. 
 
 For some minutes the sick man lay with 
 his eyes shut, acutely conscious of every 
 detail in the room. It has been said that 
 when the knowledge comes suddenly to a man 
 that he has only a few minutes to live, his 
 whole life passes in review before him. Ter 
 razzas had wakened suddenly to that realiza 
 tion after weeks of unconsciousness ; but noth 
 ing of the sort occurred with him. Instead, he 
 
84 The King s Highway 
 
 lay and, in his mind, examined minutely but 
 totally without interest, every detail in the 
 room about him. He did not know where 
 he was; but though his brain was perfectly 
 clear, he did not care. He was entirely 
 uninterested in the surroundings he was so 
 acutely conscious of. If the little statuette 
 of San Jose in the smoke-blackened niche 
 had been standing on its head instead of its 
 feet, Terrazzas would not have wondered at 
 all. 
 
 Then he heard men s voices under the 
 courtyard windows. Or rather, he heard a 
 voice; for only to one of them did Terrazzas 
 pay any attention. It was a very pleasant 
 voice, strong and vibrant, and suddenly he 
 knew that he had heard it before. Full of an 
 exquisite quality of sympathy, it thrilled the 
 very being of the man sick unto death ; and 
 like a flash the thought came to him that there 
 was something he must tell to someone before 
 he died. He wanted to tell it to the man he 
 heard under the window. Eagerly he tried to 
 raise his voice and call after him, but he could 
 not speak above a whisper. Vaguely annoyed 
 at that, he attempted to lift himself in bed ; but 
 sheer weakness kept him from moving so much 
 as a hand. Then the voice died away down the 
 long corridor. An acute distress of mind 
 
The King s Highway 85 
 
 replaced the former calm of the sick man. 
 He could not die until someone came ! Some 
 one must come! 
 
 Then the Indian woman Candelaria came 
 into the room. Hastening to Antonio s bed 
 side, she placed her hand upon his forehead. 
 The fever had left him, and he looked at her 
 intelligently. But one glance at his face told 
 Candelaria that the man was dying. Then she 
 saw that his lips were moving in an effort to 
 attract her attention, and she bent over him to 
 listen. She could not distinguish the syllables, 
 but she thought she knew what he wished to 
 say. 
 
 "The man is dying and wants a priest," she 
 said wisely to herself. "I will go and call 
 Padre Vicente." 
 
 She left the room, and in a few minutes 
 came back, bringing Padre Vicente with her. 
 The priest knelt at the bedside of Terrazzas, 
 but the dying man did not stir. Padre Vi 
 cente saw that he was too weak to receive the 
 Holy Viaticum ; and, holding the ivory cross 
 of his rosary before the man s eyes, he spoke 
 some words of comfort. But Antonio Terraz 
 zas did not look at the holy emblem before 
 him. Eagerly he lifted his gaze to the priest s 
 magnetic eyes, and made another desperate 
 effort to speak. Padre Vicente saw that the 
 
86 The King s Highway 
 
 man was trying to say something, and he bent 
 lower to hear. 
 
 "My coat " whispered Terrazzas weakly, 
 "the coat I wore when I came " 
 
 "You shall have it, hijo mio," said the 
 priest with ready sympathy. "Candelaria, 
 bring the coat of the senor." 
 
 Thus commanded, Candelaria brought the 
 coat and laid it on the bed. It was a gaudy 
 affair of green and red, gay with the gold 
 trappings of an officer of the Mexican army ; 
 and it contrasted strangely with the somber 
 brown of Padre Vicente s Franciscan habit. 
 The priest did not look upon it with scorn 
 however. He had been a man of the world 
 before he had turned priest ; and when he bent 
 over Terrazzas again, there was only sym 
 pathy in his eyes. 
 
 "What would you have me do for you, hijo 
 mio?" he questioned gently. 
 
 "Take out from the inside pocket what 
 you find there " breathed the dying man 
 laboriously. 
 
 Padre Vicente thrust his hand into the coat, 
 and fumbled about for a moment. Then he 
 brought out a small, oval, leather case, and 
 held it up, a question on his face. 
 
 The eyes of the dying man, which had not 
 brightened at sight of the holy cross, kindled 
 
The King s Highway 87 
 
 now. He tried to speak again, but he was 
 growing weaker. Padre Vicente bent over 
 him. 
 
 "The City of Mexico " murmured Ter- 
 razza faintly, "send to Rafaela " A strange 
 expression passed across the priest s face, and 
 he bent still lower to catch the failing words. 
 "Rafaela Montijo my " But the sentence 
 was never finished. The words trailed along 
 into the eternal silences; and the priest knew 
 that Terrazzas was dead. Rising from where 
 he knelt on the floor, he laid his fingers in 
 reverent blessing upon the thick, dark hair 
 where it curled about the temples. Lying as 
 if he slept peacefully, the hard lines of his 
 thin, dark face softened in death, Antonio 
 Terrazzas appeared little older than when he 
 had ridden gaily off on the King s Highway 
 eight years before. But the King s Highway 
 that he had taken now was a longer road. 
 
 "He was not more than a boy," murmured 
 the priest compassionately. "May God bless 
 his soul." 
 
 Padre Vicente had seen fifty-seven years pass 
 by, but he had not forgotten what it was to 
 be young. As he stood there looking tenderly 
 into the calm face before him, something out 
 of the past rose up and clutched at his heart. 
 For a moment it was not Antonio Terrazzas 
 
88 The King s Highivay 
 
 that he saw, but his own dead youth himself 
 as he had been thirty years ago. Padre Vi 
 cente sighed. Gently he picked up the gay 
 coat, sparkling with its gilt trappings, and laid 
 it over the still form on the bed. 
 
 "May he rest in peace," whispered the 
 priest softly. Then he left the room. 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 Ashes of Roses 
 
 A Padre Vicente walked quickly along 
 the corridor, a tall, young man step 
 ped suddenly from behind an arch 
 and barred his way. The dark, handsome 
 face under the wide sombrero was anxious, 
 and its owner spoke earnestly. 
 
 "What news, padre?" asked Miguel, his 
 eyes aflame with the question. 
 
 The priest looked compassionately into the 
 eager face. 
 
 "The young man is asleep, beloved," he said 
 gently. "The fever is gone it will never 
 come back any more, Miguel." 
 
 The boy s face changed. 
 
 "You mean that he is dead!" he cried, all 
 the glow leaving his eyes. "that is what 
 you mean." 
 
 "Yes." returned the priest almost absently, 
 "that is what I mean." 
 
 "And I did not have a chance to speak to 
 him !" Miguel s tone was bitter. "It is cruel 
 cruel that I could not speak to him even 
 once !" 
 
 "Not cruel, hijo mio," returned Padre Vi- 
 
90 The King s Highway 
 
 cente soothingly, "not cruel. It was the will 
 of the good God." 
 
 "Then the will of God is cruel !" exclaimed 
 Miguel passionately. "He was the only friend 
 I ever had except you, padre," he added more 
 quietly. 
 
 Padre Vicente sighed. He could remember 
 the time when he too had thought the will of 
 God was not always kind. He knew better 
 now, but the knowledge did not lead him to 
 forget. He laid his hand gently upon the 
 younger man s arm. 
 
 "The will of God is never cruel, Miguel," he 
 said with that exquisite sympathy that always 
 read what one intended and met it half way. 
 "He could not be cruel for He is Love. I have 
 lived a long while and I know." 
 
 Miguel looked up quickly. There was a 
 suspicion of tears in his black-velvet eyes. 
 The padre went on. 
 
 "We are not always happy, hijo mio," he 
 said slowly. Sometimes our dearest hopes 
 things we would give our very life s blood for, 
 seem wrecked before our eyes. That is hard 
 very hard, and we could not understand it 
 if this life were all. But this life is not all. 
 I know." 
 
 Something in the man s tone carried con 
 viction to Miguel. 
 
The King s Highway 91 
 
 "Forgive me, padre," he said humbly. "I 
 was wrong." Then he cast an adoring look 
 at the priest s face. "You are splendid," he 
 said impulsively. "I can never be like you I 
 know!" 
 
 "Choose a more perfect pattern, Miguel of 
 my heart," said Padre Vicente soberly, "and 
 you can be a better man than I. But I do not 
 misunderstand. I have been young in fact, 
 I am not old yet," he added with an odd smile. 
 "I was once like you, Miguel." 
 
 Miguel sighed. He was not so hopeful as 
 the priest for his growth in perfection. 
 
 "Did he speak at all before he died, padre?" 
 he inquired, coming back to the subject of 
 Terrazzas. 
 
 "Scarcely at all," answered the priest. "He 
 was so weak that he could hardly open his 
 eyes. He died without pain, I think." 
 
 Miguel was silent for a moment. 
 
 "I will go and burn a candle before San 
 Antonio de Padua in the south transept," he 
 said at length, "that he may pray for the soul 
 of the other Antonio." 
 
 "Go, hijo mio, and may the good God bless 
 you," said Padre Vicente tenderly. 
 
 Miguel hastened across the courtyard in the 
 direction of the church. For a moment Padre 
 Vicente stood looking after him; then he 
 
92 The King s Highway 
 
 turned and walked rapidly down the corridor. 
 When he came to the door of his own room, 
 he went in and shut it after him. 
 
 Padre Vicente s room, or rather cell, was 
 a small, whitewashed apartment, very much 
 like the one he had left a few moments before. 
 It was furnished scantily with a rawhide bed, 
 a rough chair, and a table before the south 
 window. In a niche by the window stood a 
 figure of the Christ ; and below the niche a 
 small cupboard with panelled doors was built 
 into the wall. Padre Vicente crossed the room, 
 and sitting down in the chair, placed the little 
 leather case on the table before him. Probably 
 it contained a picture of the betrothed wife 
 of the young man who had just died. She 
 lived in the City of Mexico, and Terrazzas 
 wished the picture sent to her with the news 
 of his death. There was small doubt that 
 this was the true state of affairs, and a glance 
 inside the case would make sure. Yet Padre 
 Vicente did not open the case at once. In the 
 rose vine outside the window, a debonair 
 mockingbird flashed to and fro among the 
 fragrant blossoms, flirting his long, graceful 
 tail easily from side to side. The priest fol 
 lowed the bird s movements closely, but there 
 was an unseeing look in his eyes. 
 
 More than thirty years ago in Old Spain, 
 
The King s Highway 93 
 
 Padre Vicente had loved a woman whose name 
 was Rafaela loved her with all the pure 
 fervor of which his heart was capable. He had 
 come away and left her because of the greater 
 passion that dominated his soul; but ever 
 after the thought of her had been to him like 
 the sweetness of remembered roses. In his 
 long years of labor in New Spain, she had been 
 with him always not as the memory of a 
 profane love, but as the actual presence of an 
 enthroned purity, far above his head like a 
 saint in a niche. 
 
 Other men might put away the memory of 
 love between the withered petals of actual 
 roses. Padre Vicente s memory held no such 
 material tokens ; he might not have kept them 
 if it had. The memory of love lives longer 
 than the passion they say ; and so this man was 
 fortunate in posessing no substantial remem 
 brances of the woman that he had loved. He 
 had never touched the petals of his roses; for 
 him there had been only the fragrance. And 
 for a long time the sweetness had been to him 
 that of a dead rose the memory of love had 
 seemed to replace the love itself. 
 
 Sitting before his window that morning, the 
 priest stared into the dark-green foliage of 
 the rose vine, and left the little leather case 
 untouched on the table before him. He knew 
 
94 The King s Highway 
 
 that he was afraid to open it. Not that it 
 would seem a violation, for the case had been 
 entrusted to him, and a glance at the con 
 tents would be necessary to the fulfilment of 
 the trust. He knew that Terrazzas would 
 have wanted him to open it. It was on his 
 own account that he hesitated. That morning, 
 the name of the woman he had loved on the 
 lips of a dying man had come to him like a 
 voice out of the past. It was as if the remem 
 bered sweetness of the dead rose had been sud 
 denly transmuted into the warm fragrance of a 
 living flower. More than thirty years ago Hvar- 
 isto Artillaga had loved a Rafaela. This morn 
 ing Antonio Terrazzas had died, the name of 
 another Rafaela his last breath. Her picture 
 lay on the table before Padre Vicente now ; but 
 the Rafaela that he had loved was lost to him. 
 Would Antonio s love be anything like her? 
 The two might be as totally unlike as night is 
 from day; yet to open the case would be like 
 uncovering a grave. It would be even more 
 than that it would be lifting the saint down 
 from the niche ; taking away from her the 
 incense of dead roses and putting the odor 
 of fresh flowers in its place. 
 
 It would be all of that, and yet Padre Vi 
 cente was not prepared for what met his eyes 
 when he did open the case. Slowly he undid 
 
The King s Highway 95 
 
 the fastening of the leather cover and slipped 
 it off. Inside lay a flat, oval locket of antique 
 gold, bearing the initial R, followed, according 
 to the Spanish fashion, by an elaborate rub- 
 rica. 
 
 With steady fingers Padre Vicente pressed 
 the spring, and the golden cover flew back. 
 And then it was as if the whole room were 
 filled with the warm perfume of living roses. 
 Actual petals that have lain in dust for thirty 
 years cannot suddenly spring to a glorious 
 resurrection, but remembered sweetness can 
 rise again more wonderful than ever before. 
 Padre Vicente shut his eyes, then the case. 
 Burying his face in his hands, he let memory 
 have its way. 
 
 "Many waters cannot quench love, 
 
 Neither can the floods drown it." 
 
 For a moment, the priest saw again Rafaela ; 
 not as the enshrined saint of his thoughts, 
 but the well beloved of his soul. 
 
 "Thou are all fair, my love; there is no 
 spot in thee," he murmured reverently. Then 
 he lifted his head, and opening the case again, 
 looked steadily into the face it held. As well 
 as he was aware of his own presence, he 
 knew that the Rafaela before him was the 
 daughter of the woman that he had loved. 
 The deep, tender eyes in the picture looked 
 
96 The King s Highway 
 
 into his with the same high look that he had 
 known before. If the painter had drawn the 
 likeness from the face of the mother, he could 
 have made no truer picture than lay in the face 
 of the daughter. And if he had been seeking 
 a model for the picture of a joyful, young 
 angel, he need have looked no farther. His 
 desires would have been all realized in that 
 face. 
 
 For several moments Padre Vicente gazed 
 into the locket before him. It had not been 
 because he did not love Rafaela that he had 
 left her. Nevertheless, he had left her, and he 
 had had no word of her since. She had mar 
 ried, and this was her daughter. Did she love 
 the man she had married? And was she yet 
 alive? Padre Vicente was fifty-seven years 
 old now, and a priest; but these questions 
 came back to him as insistently as if he were 
 young and a man of the world again. But 
 the face before him held no answer. 
 
 After a time Padre Vicente rose and knelt 
 before the Christ in the niche. He did not 
 stir for many moments ; but when he lifted his 
 eyes again, peace shone in them. Gravely 
 he picked up the picture, and shut first the 
 golden cover, then the leather one. Opening 
 the panelled door below the niche, he placed 
 
The King s Highway 97 
 
 the little case carefully inside and shut the 
 door. 
 
 Men cannot give up their dreams once for 
 all. Sometimes the pain of old sorrow conies 
 back most insistently after years of peace. 
 But Padre Vicente had not sacrificed his all 
 for nothing. 
 
 "Thine eyes shall see the King in His 
 beauty : they shall behold the land that is very 
 far off." 
 
 Those words had been his consolation once ; 
 and like a flash they came back to him now. 
 
 "Father, I thank Thee that Thou hast heard 
 me," said the priest simply. Then he went out 
 into the corridor. When he closed the door 
 after him, his hand was as reverent as if the 
 room behind him had been a holy place. 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 The King s Highway 
 
 SPRING lingered late in San Juan valley 
 that year; and the first of May found 
 the hills still green, still redolent with 
 the breath of flowers. Like the heavenly 
 stream in the Patmos vision of Saint 
 John, the little river sparkled seaward 
 past trees bearing all manner of fruit. 
 The Mission orchards promised rich har 
 vest of the padres skill, and the hand of 
 the spoiler had not touched them yet. Peace 
 brooded over the valley the peace of the 
 sky s cloudless blue ; the peace of the great, 
 scarred sanctuary that watched over all. 
 Peace. 
 
 To Miguel, galloping south on the King s 
 Highway, there was no peace ; but a mad, 
 unreasoning joy that filled his whole being 
 and brimmed over into the atmosphere about 
 him. The bubbling note of the meadowlark in 
 the wheat was not a bird s song to him ; it was 
 merely part of all the inexplicable delight 
 about him. The green of fields, the splendor 
 of flowers, the blue of heaven and the delicious 
 caress of the spring air all said one thing to 
 
The King s Highway 99 
 
 him be glad ! The time, the place, all, every 
 thing about him, went to his head and made 
 him drunk with the joy of spring and youth. 
 For one wild, unreasoning interval, he forgot 
 that Terrazzas lay asleep in the Mission 
 graveyard ; forgot that he was on his way 
 to Mexico to become a priest; remembered 
 only that the day was fine ; that he was young 
 and that he was riding on the King s High 
 way. 
 
 Between smiling fields the road stretched 
 southward before him. His horse was good, 
 and he was glad that the way was long. He 
 wanted to ride on and on until he was tired. 
 Red-gold poppies might burn on the hillsides, 
 and all the fields be bright with the purple 
 of Spanish lilies and the pale gold of pansies; 
 but Miguel saw them all only as a blaze of 
 color, snuffed their glorious fragrance only as 
 a whiff of the delicious savor of living. If 
 only for a moment, his dream had come true. 
 He was mounted on a good, black horse ; the 
 jangle of harness and the creak of saddle 
 leather were in his ears, and the breath of 
 spring was in his nostrils. Out of the charmed 
 distance, something rose up and beckoned to 
 him. He saw it, and everything that was 
 within him stood up to answer the call. He 
 did not stop to think that he might never 
 
100 The King s Highway 
 
 reach what beckoned to him ; in his present 
 mood it was enough that his blood should 
 tingle madly as he rode to meet what had 
 called him since his childhood. And as he 
 rode, the picture of Rafaela Montijo lay warm 
 over his heart. 
 
 That morning Padre Vicente had showed 
 Miguel the picture, and told him of the dying 
 request of Terrazzas. He was to carry the 
 little case with a letter of explanation from the 
 padre, to a certain Rafaela Montijo in the City 
 of Mexico. With reverent eyes, Miguel had 
 gazed upon the beautiful face in the golden 
 frame. The story of it was simple ; for Padre 
 Vicente did not tell him of the other Rafaela. 
 Gently the priest had put the case in the young 
 man s eager hand. 
 
 "Guard it well, hijo mio," he had said, "that 
 the owner may surely receive it. You could 
 not go on a more sacred mission if you carried 
 a message from the padre presidente him 
 self." 
 
 His eyes had spoken more eloquently than 
 his lips; but Miguel had laid that to the zeal 
 of the Franciscan for loving his fellow man. 
 He had accepted the trust loyally, but, as he 
 rode south that morning, the picture meant 
 no more to him personally than the caress 
 of the breeze, or the sparkle of the little, blue 
 
The King s Highivay 101 
 
 marianas by the wayside. For Miguel had 
 never snuffed the incense of dead roses. 
 
 As for Padre Vicente, he had felt no mis 
 giving in entrusting the picture of a beautiful 
 woman to the young man who was about to 
 enter the priesthood. God would take care of 
 that matter. He had made the dream come 
 true so far; and Padre Vicente was ready to 
 trust Him the rest of the way. 
 
 Miguel rode a long distance southward 
 before his first fine exhiliration left him. And 
 when at length he did check the mad gait of 
 his horse and settle down to an easier pace, 
 his mood was not less high, but more thought 
 ful. He looked every inch a man as he sat 
 his horse that morning. One would have said 
 that he was a soldier, a gay caballero, a young 
 nobleman, anything but a prospective priest. 
 There was about him the same careless grace, 
 the same unconscious fire that Terrazzas had 
 noted years ago when he had said : "you look 
 as if you had fighting blood in your veins." 
 The look had always been there ; but it was 
 more pronounced about the man of twenty-one 
 than it had been about the boy of thirteen. 
 And yet the young man was almost totally 
 unconscious of its presence. 
 
 The truth was that Miguel was a most 
 extraordinary mixture of warring qualities. 
 
102 The King s Highway 
 
 His life so far had been passed within the pale 
 of the Church. A strange babyhood was that 
 within the walls of a Franciscan monastery ; 
 and it was little wonder that at twenty-one 
 Miguel was at once old and young for his 
 years. No mother had sung the little boy to 
 sleep with tender lullabies, or begiled his wak 
 ing hours with strangely woven tales of fairies 
 and giants. His earliest companions had been 
 the priests and the Indians; his earliest recol 
 lections solemn chants and pious stories of the 
 saints. His playground had been the Mission 
 corridors and God s great out-of-doors; and 
 little did he know of the world and its ways. 
 All these things had had their effect; and at 
 twenty-one, in his habits of thought and 
 manner of life, Miguel was a Franciscan. 
 But, almost unconfessed even in his heart of 
 hearts, the unknown heritage that he had 
 brought with him cried out for something 
 different. In the days of his childhood it had 
 stood up within him and reached out at sight 
 of the broad trail of the King s Highway that 
 led on and on, away into the great world. It 
 had wakened into quicker life at the coming 
 of Antonio Terrazzas. And, in the heart of 
 the man, a vague, unsatisfied desire still 
 smouldered ready to burst into flame at the 
 slightest touch. But Miguel did not realize 
 
The King s Highway 103 
 
 this. The vague unrest had been a part of him 
 so long that he did not regard it as anything 
 strange. He accepted it as he accepted every 
 thing else, as the will of the good God; and 
 today, as he rode through blossoming fields 
 on his way to Mexico, he was honestly sure 
 of his vocation. 
 
 It is seldom that people, especially young 
 people, analyze their own motives. From 
 childhood Miguel had known that he was des 
 tined for the priesthood. Everyone that had 
 spoken to him on the subject had assured him 
 of that fact. Only once had he wavered ; and 
 of that brief apostacy Terrazzas had been the 
 unconscious cause. True, the beacon that had 
 lighted his footsteps back to the fold on that 
 occasion had been love of Padre Vicente. But 
 it is easy sometimes to mistake the sign for 
 the thing signified ; and, if a short time after 
 his struggle, it had been suggested to the boy 
 that his vocation was a matter of loyalty to a 
 man and not to the Church, Miguel would 
 have repudiated the idea indignantly. For to 
 him, Padre Vicente was the Church, and the 
 Church was Padre Vicente. It has not always 
 been easy for great minds to separate prin 
 ciple and personality; and Miguel was only 
 a boy. Moreover, he was under the daily 
 influence of a great personality. From baby- 
 
104 The King s Highway 
 
 hood, he had looked to the padre in every 
 thing; had poured out upon him all the love 
 of which he was capable. And with his love 
 was mingled reverence, adoration that amount 
 ed almost to worship. The man was his hero 
 yes, more, his saint. If Padre Vicente had 
 stepped into a burning, fiery furnace, and 
 holding out his hand had said: "Come," 
 Miguel would have followed him cheerfully. 
 And so it was not strange that when Padre 
 Vicente opened the door of the Church, and 
 said: "Come," Miguel obeyed without a 
 question. Something of the heroic splendor of 
 the priest s own personality seemed to invest 
 his holy office because it was his; and the 
 boy could not distinguish. In this, however, 
 he was only like others, whose name has 
 always been legion hero worshipers who 
 persuade themselves into the belief that they 
 are devotees of a cause. 
 
 All these things had done much to choke out 
 Old Desire ; but Old Desire was not dead. Like 
 a smouldering ember ready to spring into 
 flame at an instant s touch, it waited in his 
 heart. Miguel was among those who bore 
 the cross ; but he was not of them. He was of 
 those who carried the banners ; but, blinded by 
 love of one who followed the cross, he did 
 not know it. Today, as he journeyed south- 
 
The King s Highway 105 
 
 ward, he was unconscious of all these things; 
 and knew only that he was riding on the 
 King s Highway, and that something out of 
 the distance called to him. He did not know 
 what it was that beckoned to him perhaps 
 even now, Old Desire and the padre s calling 
 \vere not entirely distinct in his mind. If he 
 had known that what he rode to meet would 
 soon fan the embers of Old Desire into glow 
 ing flame, would he have turned back? Who 
 knows? At all events, he did not know; and 
 so he rode ever southward on the King s 
 Highway. Somewhere ahead that which he 
 knew not, but that for which his soul cried out, 
 waited for his coming. And as he rode, the 
 picture of Rafaela Montijo lay warm over 
 his heart. 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 Rafaela Montijo 
 
 PADRE Vicente had chosen one of the 
 finest horses from the Mission herd for 
 Miguel s journey; and when the young 
 man rode down San Diego valley that evening, 
 the sun was still a half hour high. Within a 
 mile of the Mission, Miguel passed a typical 
 California ranch home a long, whitewashed 
 adobe with wide veranda and tiled roof. One 
 lone poplar mounted guard over the entrance 
 at the road, and a thick hedge of tall orange 
 trees bordered one side of the house. Smoke 
 was rising from the kitchen chimney as Miguel 
 rode by ; and he looked at it curiously, as 
 part of a life that he knew little of. For 
 what should a man brought up in a monas 
 tery know of a home? Nothing from his own 
 experience ; but there is always the imagina 
 tion. In his childhood Miguel had envied his 
 little Indian playfellows their simple joys 
 father and mother and brothers and sisters, 
 and a home within the four walls of an adobe 
 hut. Now that he was a man, he no longer 
 envied the Indians. But the blue smoke 
 curling upward from the wide kitchen chimney 
 
The King s Highway 107 
 
 that spring evening aroused an old longing; 
 and impatiently he spurred his horse onward. 
 He would stay that night at San Diego 
 Mission. 
 
 A few moments later, Miguel came in sight 
 of the tall fachada of the Mission, and the 
 green palm trees for which San Diego was 
 famous. The white walls and red-tiled roofs 
 gleamed splendid in the light of the declining 
 sun; and, according to tradition, the young 
 man should have uttered a pious ejaculation 
 at sight of this first citadel of the faith in 
 Alta California. But Miguel did no such 
 thing. Instead, he caught his breath and 
 almost lost hold of his bridle rein ; for there on 
 a big, white horse under the palm trees he saw 
 her Rafaela Montijo deep in conversation 
 with a Franciscan priest. The young man 
 could scarcely believe the evidence of his own 
 eyes, for that very morning Padre Vicente 
 had told him that the girl whose picture he 
 carried was in Mexico. But there she was 
 under the palm trees. Miguel was as sure of 
 that as he was that he was alive; there could 
 be no mistake about it. There by the gate 
 in the Mission wall she sat her horse ; the 
 light of the setting sun across her head like 
 the aureole of a saint. Miguel thought her the 
 most beautiful thing he had ever seen ; and 
 
108 The King s Highway 
 
 there came to his mind the picture of a young 
 angel by Murillo that hung in the sacristy at 
 San Juan. Instinctively he took off his som 
 brero. 
 
 The girl on the horse turned. Miguel saw 
 that she was taking leave of the priest; and 
 as he rode nearer, she wheeled her mount and 
 came directly toward him. She gave him one 
 look in passing such an impersonal glance 
 as any noble lady might give a strange cabal- 
 lero on the King s Highway. But it was 
 enough for Miguel to be sure that her s was 
 the likeness he carried. Her face wore the 
 same high look there could not be another 
 like her. 
 
 On she went in the direction that he had 
 come; and she did not look back. All uncon 
 scious of the fact that his horse had stopped 
 to nibble the grass by the way, Miguel turned 
 in his saddle to follow her with his eyes. 
 What should he do? Yonder, disappearing in 
 that cloud of yellow dust, rode Rafaela Mon- 
 tijo, the woman whose picture he carried the 
 betrothed wife of Antonio Terrazzas. Ter- 
 razzas slept under the spring grasses at San 
 Juan; and he, Miguel de Dios Artillaga who 
 carried her picture over his heart, sat here 
 without a word, watching her ride away into 
 the distance. What should he do? Terrazzas 
 
The King s Highway 109 
 
 was dead and the girl, did not know it. 
 Decidedly it was the duty of Miguel to ride 
 after her to deliver the picture and the 
 message. Yet he did not stir. Wide-eyed 
 and breathless, as if he had seen an angel 
 pass by, he sat in his saddle and watched the 
 girl fast disappearing up the road. What 
 should he do? 
 
 Suddenly a snatch of ribald song fell upon 
 his ears. A Mexican soldier from the presidio, 
 somewhat the worse for liquor, rode slowly 
 past where Miguel sat. Looking from the 
 young man s face to the woman now almost 
 out of sight up the road, he drew rein. 
 
 "Console yourself, amigo mio," he said with 
 a leer. "She s pretty, but you can t have her. 
 She s mine already. I tell you " 
 
 Startled from his reverie. Miguel turned 
 upon the man in sudden rage, and laid his 
 riding whip full across the drunken face. 
 
 "Shut your lying mouth animal !" he 
 cried furiously, and instinctively drew back 
 to defend himself. Strange to say, however, 
 the man did not show fight. With a mut 
 tered curse, he wheeled his horse and galloped 
 back toward the Mission. 
 
 For a moment Miguel sat in a daze, staring 
 at the whip in his hand. He had struck a 
 man across the face he, Miguel de Dios 
 
110 The King s Highway 
 
 Artillaga who was on his way to Mexico to 
 become a priest. He had not meant to do it 
 something had lifted his hand and bade him 
 strike; he did not know what urged him. 
 Mingled feelings surged in his heart anger, 
 triumph, astonishment at himself. What 
 should he do? Suddenly his brain cleared. 
 Gathering up his reins, he wheeled quickly 
 and dug the spurs into the sides of his horse. 
 He would follow her Rafaela Montijo over 
 take her, and deliver the message. Deep in 
 the uttermost parts of his soul, smouldering 
 embers glowed fiercely as if about to burst 
 into flame. But Miguel did not heed them. 
 With wildly beating heart, he galloped madly 
 back in the way he had come. Somewhere 
 ahead of him on the King s Highway, all 
 unconscious of the sudden tumult that she 
 had caused, rode Rafaela Montijo, and did 
 not look back. 
 
 The sun hung low in the west now, but 
 Miguel did not see it. Eagerly he pushed his 
 mount onward, till at a bend in the road he 
 came in sight of Rafaela. She had slackened 
 her horse s pace ; and instinctively Miguel 
 checked his own speed. Why, he could not 
 have told. They covered a quarter of a mile 
 thus ; she looking straight ahead, he following. 
 Then the house of the lone poplar came into 
 
The King s Highway 111 
 
 view. With the manner of one on familiar 
 ground, the girl turned into the entrance, and 
 dismounting, gave her horse to a little Mex 
 ican boy who led it away. Then she went into 
 the house. 
 
 From the roadway, Miguel watched her 
 disappear. Then he dismounted and tied his 
 horse to an iron ring in the trunk of the lone 
 poplar. He would follow her into the house. 
 
 An old Mexican woman was feeding ca 
 naries on the veranda as Miguel came in. She 
 stepped forward to meet him ; and he pulled 
 off his sombrero with the easy grace that was 
 his birthright. 
 
 "Is the Sefiorita Montijo at home?" he asked 
 respectfully. It did not occur to him to ask if 
 such a person as the Senorita Montijo lived 
 there. 
 
 Impressed by the noble bearing of the young 
 man, the old woman bowed elaborately. 
 
 "The senorita is at home," she said with 
 deference. "If the senor will do us the honor 
 to enter the house, I will call her." 
 
 The senor would do them that honor, who 
 ever "they" might be ; and the old woman 
 went in search of the senorita. 
 
 The room which Miguel entered was long 
 and low, with a tiled floor and whitewashed 
 walls. Several carved chairs and a table were 
 
112 The King s Highway 
 
 the only furniture ; but Miguel felt at home 
 because San Antonio de Padua and San Jose 
 looked down at him from little niches on 
 either side of the big fireplace. The young 
 man did not sit down, but crossed over to the 
 window and stood looking out. In the orange 
 hedge that bordered the side of the house, 
 numberless linnets were celebrating a sort of 
 choral evensong. Many times Miguel had 
 heard their soft twitter at evening in the 
 padres garden at San Juan ; but the sound 
 came to him now as from a great way off. 
 His brain was awhirl with vague questions 
 and strange wonderings. Rafaela Montijo, 
 that morning unknown, far off, the creature 
 of a dream, was under the same roof with 
 him now, living breathing presence. What 
 would she say when he gave her the 
 picture? Miguel was full of a dread that she 
 would burst into tears; yet for worlds he 
 would not have surrendered the privilege of 
 giving it to her. With abstracted gaze he 
 watched the yellow light of the setting sun 
 filter lingeringly through the green orange 
 leaves. He took the letter and picture from 
 under his coat and waited. 
 
 Suddenly the door at the end of the room 
 opened, and Rafaela Montijo came in. Miguel 
 turned and saw her, and for an instant neither 
 
The King s Highway 113 
 
 spoke. To Miguel it was if the angel in the 
 sacristy at San Juan had stepped down out of 
 the frame and stood before him in flesh and 
 blood. Outlined against the glow of the 
 western window, she wore again the aureole 
 that had lighted her head when he had first 
 seen her under the palm trees at San Diego 
 Mission ; and Miguel felt once more the 
 reverence that had possessed him then. He 
 stepped forward. 
 
 "Senorita Rafaela Montijo?" he questioned 
 steadily. 
 
 "Si, senor," answered the girl slowly, and 
 waited for him to speak again. With a sudden 
 rush of feeling, Miguel noted that she was 
 very young, not more than nineteen or twenty. 
 There was something intensely appealing 
 about the clear, direct gaze of the dark eyes 
 she lifted to his ; and suddenly Miguel thought 
 of Terrazzas asleep in the padres graveyard. 
 How he must have loved her ! 
 
 "I am Miguel de Dios Artillaga, and I 
 bring you a message from Padre Vicente 
 Artillaga at San Juan Capistrano," said the 
 young man simply. "He thought that you 
 were in the City of Mexico." 
 
 "And you found me here." Her gaze was 
 puzzled. "I do not know Padre Vicente. 
 What message has he for me?" 
 
114 The King s Highway 
 
 "This, senorita." Miguel placed the little 
 package and the letter in the girl s hands. 
 His heart beat fast, but his voice was steady. 
 
 The look of wonder did not leave her eyes. 
 
 "Muchas gracias, sefior," said the girl. 
 "May I ask you to wait one moment while I 
 read the letter? There may be an answer." 
 
 Miguel knew in his soul that there was no 
 answer, but he said nothing. The girl turned 
 to the window to read the letter and Miguel 
 walked over to the fireplace where he stood 
 before the little figure of San Antonio de 
 Padua. Would that the good saint of Padua 
 might watch over the loved one of his name 
 sake now! 
 
 For several moments the girl at the window 
 gave no sign. The daylight was failing, and 
 the twitter of the linnets in the oranges grew 
 gradually fainter. To Miguel it seemed as if 
 hours had passed since he had taken his stand 
 before the niche of San Antonio. Then 
 Rafaela Montijo turned and laid the letter and 
 the picture on the table by the fireplace. 
 
 "So Antonio is dead," she said in a strange 
 voice. Then she added without a tremor in 
 her tone, "I know that he was dead. If he 
 had not died, I should have had news of him 
 before this." 
 
 The marked calm of the girl s manner 
 
The King s Highway 115 
 
 nonplussed Miguel. He would not have been 
 surprised had she broken into a passion of 
 tears ; but this was this the way a woman 
 met the news of her lover s death? He forgot 
 that he was only the bearer of the message, 
 and he spoke the question that trembled on his 
 lips. 
 
 "And you you loved him?" 
 
 Her deep eyes opened wide, and a hurt look 
 crept into them. 
 
 "I loved him?" she echoed slowly. "No, I 
 never loved him." 
 
 Her manner was as innocent as that of a 
 child, and it seemed the most natural thing in 
 the world to speak thus with her. 
 
 "But he carried your picture," protested 
 Miguel in honest bewilderment. 
 
 "Yes," she answered, "he carried my picture. 
 He loved me." Then after a moment she 
 added as if to herself, "I did not love him, 
 but he was the only friend I had." 
 
 "He was my friend too," said Miguel. 
 
 "Your friend? Where did you know him?" 
 asked Rafaela Montijo. 
 
 "At San Juan Capistrano, eight years ago," 
 returned Miguel. "When I was a child, he 
 was my friend. He was very dear to me," he 
 added loyally. 
 
 Suddenly the girl s manner lost its calm. 
 
116 The King s Highway 
 
 Her deep eyes filled ; and throwing herself into 
 a chair by the table, she hid her face in her 
 hands. For a moment she sat thus; then she 
 lifted her face, and the man across the table 
 saw that it was wet with tears. When she 
 spoke, her voice was not the same as it had 
 been. It was very tender. 
 
 "Antonio was my good friend," she said. 
 "Sit down and tell me what you know about 
 him." 
 
 Obediently Miguel took a seat opposite the 
 girl and told all that he knew of Antonio Ter- 
 razzas. While he spoke, Rafaela kept her clear, 
 appealing gaze on his face, and when he 
 finished, she drew a long breath. 
 
 "Poor Antonio," she said softly. "He loved 
 me he was very good to me." She paused a 
 moment, then went on. "I think you do not 
 understand. If he had lived, I should have 
 married him. But I did not love him as 
 a woman wants to love the man she marries." 
 
 Miguel nodded silently. It did not seem at 
 all strange that they two should speak thus 
 intimately when they had met only a few 
 moments before. The girl went on. 
 
 "I promised to marry him because " she 
 hesitated "because it seemed best. He knew 
 that I did not love him. Last winter he left 
 the City of Mexico. He told me that he was 
 
The King s Highway 117 
 
 going on a dangerous mission, that perhaps 
 he would not see me again. He would be 
 happier if he carried my picture with him." 
 There was a little quiver in her voice, and she 
 hurried on. "I gave him my picture and he 
 took it away with him. He is dead, and you 
 have brought it to me again. He was very 
 good to me poor Antonio," she finished 
 pathetically. 
 
 It was almost dark now, and the voices of 
 the linnets had ceased. Silence reigned for a 
 moment, then Miguel rose in his place. 
 
 "May the good God keep his soul and you, 
 senorita," he said reverently. 
 
 "I pray that He will," answered Rafaela. 
 Then she rose too. The old Mexican woman 
 came in, and placing two lighted candles in 
 brass holders on the table, went out again 
 silently. Across the soft flame of the candles 
 the girl looked at Miguel ; and again he 
 thought of the angel at San Juan. 
 
 "You were his friend," she said gently. 
 "You loved him. I thank you for bringing 
 me the message." 
 
 "Do not speak of it, senorita," replied 
 Miguel. "It was nothing." 
 
 "Yes, it was a great deal," insisted Rafaela. 
 "He was my good friend and I wish that I 
 could have loved him. You brought him to 
 
118 The King s Highway 
 
 my remembrance, and for that I thank you." 
 
 Her eyes were full of an exquisite tenderness, 
 and Miguel, looking into them, no longer 
 pitied Terrazzas asleep in the padres grave 
 yard at San Juan. Wonderful indeed it must 
 have been to love her ; but to know that she 
 did not love him it were better to go down 
 into silence. 
 
 "Good night, senorita," he said. "May the 
 peace of God be with you." 
 
 "And with you also," answered Rafaela. He 
 had said that he was going to be a priest. 
 How gentle he was, she thought, and yet how 
 strong! There was an air of a man of the 
 world about him though she had never seen 
 a priest like him. Perhaps if Antonio had 
 been more like this man but Antonio was 
 dead. She looked at Miguel once more across 
 the candles. 
 
 "Good night," she said. Then he was gone, 
 and she was alone in the room. Taking one 
 of the lighted candles, she placed it before 
 the figure of San Antonio. 
 
 "Peace," she whispered softly, and fell on 
 her knees. 
 
 Outside, Miguel looking up at the starry 
 heavens, walked rapidly toward the gate. 
 Darkness and silence had come over the place. 
 
 Before him the lone poplar loomed black, 
 
The King s Highway 119 
 
 like one giant monk in somber gown. The 
 young man sighed. The mission entrusted to 
 him by Padre Vicente fulfilled, he was years 
 older than when he had entered that gate an 
 hour before. A gay, young caballero would 
 have said that this was the beginning of a 
 romantic attachment ; but Miguel knew noth 
 ing of romantic attachments. He did not try 
 to classify the strange feelings that surged over 
 him ; he could not have done so had he tried. 
 
 At the gate he stopped and fumbled at the 
 iron ring in the trunk of the poplar where he 
 had tied his horse. The horse was not there. 
 How could he have gotten away? He had 
 been tied securely. It was growing darker 
 now, and strain his eyes as he could, Miguel 
 did not see the horse anywhere. He was not 
 greatly disturbed however. It was not likely 
 that anyone had stolen his mount horses 
 were too plentiful for that. Perhaps the little 
 Mexican boy who had taken Rafaela s horse 
 had taken his too, to keep it for him. He 
 would not bother to look for it now, in the 
 dark. The Mission was not more than a mile 
 distant, and he could easily walk. Accordingly 
 he set out at a good, round pace down the 
 road. 
 
 Miguel had not gone far, when, under a 
 liveoak that overhung the road, he stumbled 
 
120 The King s Highway 
 
 and fell. Somewhat annoyed, he tried to get 
 up. But he could not. His legs were tangled 
 in a twisted rope that pulled tightly toward 
 the side of the road. Then he heard the sound 
 of someone crawling heavily toward him 
 through the grass and dead leaves. The light 
 of a lantern flashed in his eyes; and in that 
 instant he saw before him the face of the man 
 he had struck that afternoon, a long red line 
 across it where his whip had cut. The man 
 leered evilly at him, and Miguel struggled 
 vainly for a second. Then something hard 
 struck the left side of his head, and he knew 
 no more for a while. 
 
CHAPTER XL 
 La Encifia 
 
 WHEN Miguel came to his senses, he 
 was lying under a spreading live- 
 oak in an open field. The moon was 
 shining brightly, and its white light gleamed 
 fitfully through the thick foliage of the tree. 
 Across the faintly glowing embers of a dying 
 fire Miguel saw the form of a sleeping man. 
 Who was he, and how had he come there? 
 Miguel did not know. He did not know either 
 how he himself had come there. He tried to 
 sit up, but he was tangled clumsily in twists 
 of knotted rope. There was a strange numb 
 ness in his head ; and when he tried to move, a 
 sharp pain ran violently through his left leg. 
 What could be the matter? He had been hurt, 
 and he was tied. Who had done it? Was it 
 the man who slept there? A sudden gust of 
 wind swept under the tree, fanning the dying 
 embers into brief flame. The fire flared up, 
 casting a weird light over the face of the man 
 who slept beside it; and Miguel saw that a 
 long, red line lay across his forehead and 
 right cheek. He wondered how the mark 
 
122 The King s Highway 
 
 had come there. At any rate the thing to do 
 was to get away from this place as fast as 
 possible. 
 
 With a sudden effort that racked every 
 nerve in his bruised body, Miguel sat up. The 
 man by the fire did not wake. Apparently 
 he must sleep very deeply. Cautiously Miguel 
 tried to free his right arm and after a moment 
 he succeeded. Knots tied by a drunken man 
 do not always hold very well ; and after a 
 time he was free. Eagerly he tried to rise to 
 his feet, but he fell back with a stifled groan. 
 His left leg would not move ; and when he 
 tried to stand, a flash of exquisite pain shot 
 through his whole body. He lay back and 
 thought for a moment. Very well then, if he 
 could not walk, he could crawl. He must 
 get away from here at any cost. Just why, he 
 did not know, but he entertained vague sus 
 picions of the man by the fire. 
 
 After a moment, Miguel turned over and 
 started to crawl away, dragging his hurt leg 
 after him. That every movement caused him 
 racking pain did not matter. He was pos 
 sessed of only one idea to get away from the 
 man under the tree. As he moved, the dry 
 leaves on the ground under him crackled 
 sharply; and the man by the fire rolled over, 
 cursing drunkenly in his sleep. Instinct with 
 
The King s Highway 123 
 
 fear, Miguel paused, but the man gave no 
 further sign. He slept the sleep, not of the 
 just, but of those who have drunk too deeply. 
 
 Miguel started again to crawl, and in a mo 
 ment he came out from under the shadow of 
 the tree into the clear moonlight of the open 
 field. A night breeze swayed softly among the 
 growing wheat ; and a little way off across the 
 field the house of the lone poplar gleamed 
 white under the moon. Miguel looked at the 
 house with the tall tree beside it; and suddenly 
 all that had happened came back to him with 
 a rush. 
 
 "Rafaela Rafaela Montijo," he murmured 
 weakly. 
 
 He would go to her. Painfully he began his 
 weary pilgrimage across the wheat-field. The 
 rough ground hurt his hands, and the grain 
 stalks, wet with dew of night, brushed 
 against his face and cut it. Every move was 
 torture to his racked body, but still he 
 toiled on. He must get away from the man 
 under the liveoak ; he must reach the house 
 of the lone poplar! The little way across the 
 field seemed leagues to him. Several times, 
 almost fainting with pain and exhaustion, he 
 stopped to rest. But each time he pushed on 
 again indomitably. 
 
 A little way below the orange hedge at 
 
124 The King s Highway 
 
 the end of the field, he paused before the 
 dead branch of a tree in his way. His head 
 was throbbing now, and the strange numbness 
 had changed to a sharp pain. Unconsciously 
 he put his hand to his head, and when he 
 carried it away, it was wet. The throbbing 
 in his head grew louder till it was like the 
 roar of an oncoming earthquake. A mist 
 floated before his eyes, and he fell face 
 downward across the dead branch before 
 him. Clutching it eagerly with both hands, 
 he lay still. To his disordered brain, he 
 was a child again in the church at San Juan ; 
 and the piece of dead wood in his hands was 
 the standard of the processional cross. Madre 
 de Dios! How loud was the noise of the 
 earthquake now, and how terrible the pain 
 in his head! A piece of falling masonry must 
 have struck him he could not remember. 
 Feebly he lifted his head ; and to him the glint 
 of the white moon on the polished leaves 
 of the orange trees was the light of candles 
 burning on the high altar in the sanctuary. 
 
 "Padre Padre Vicente," whispered Miguel 
 brokenly. 
 
 But there was no answer. Then the terrible 
 roar of the earthquake grew louder, and the 
 lights on the altar went out. 
 
The King s Highway 125 
 
 When Miguel next opened his eyes, he found 
 himself in bed in a cool, whitewashed room. 
 Long bars of yellow sunlight lay across the 
 floor, and through the open windows drifted 
 the heavily sweet odor of orange blossoms. 
 With the fragrance of the flowers came the 
 sleepy twitter of linnets. It was the hour of 
 sunset. 
 
 Miguel stirred faintly, and someone moved 
 in the room. Something cool was laid across 
 his forehead ; and a voice whispered : "Sleep 
 go back to sleep." His eyes closed; and soon 
 the scent of orange flowers and the twitter 
 of linnets mingled in his dreams. 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 Spotted Lilies and White 
 
 WHEN, the morning after Miguel s 
 visit at the house of the lone pop 
 lar, Dona Epifania thought that 
 she would like an orange before breakfast, 
 she looked for her niece to gather it. But 
 Rafaela was nowhere to be found. No 
 doubt she had gone on one of those early 
 morning rides on that precious, white horse 
 of her s. Very well, Dona Epifania would 
 pluck her own orange. For, among all 
 the horde of servants that swarmed in the 
 courtyard, there was not one to whom she 
 would entrust the delicate task of selecting 
 an orange for her to eat. Rafaela now, though 
 far from perfect in many ways, possessed keen 
 discrimination in the matter of oranges. It 
 was like her to run off just when she was 
 needed. Grumbling to herself, Dona Epifania 
 stepped out of her front door and made her 
 way around the house toward the orange 
 hedge. Stout, dignified, and black gowned, 
 the Dona was a typical Spanish Californian 
 lady of the Mission days. Though she was 
 nearly sixty years old, her olive skin was not 
 
The King s Highway 127 
 
 deeply wrinkled, nor were her black eyes 
 dimmed. A crown of smooth, gray hair sur 
 mounted a face that had been handsome once, 
 and was striking yet. 
 
 In her day Dona Epifania had been famed 
 for her beauty all up and down the California 
 coast; and \vhen she married Lugarde Montijo, 
 it was considered a splendid match. Epifania 
 Bonafacio was young, handsome and wealthy ; 
 Lugarde Montijo was middle aged, and pos 
 sessed of a fair amount of good looks and an 
 immense amount of money. Both were of the 
 proud Castilian blood. Don Lugarde was 
 nearly eighty now, a helpless old man ; while 
 at sixty, the Dona was still the able-bodied 
 and active mistress of her house and lands. 
 
 This morning, as Dona Epifania walked 
 around the house after her orange, it was 
 characteristic of her that, though she walked 
 with a quick step, she noted several things that 
 required attention along the way. The rose 
 on the south wall needed pruning, and the 
 weeds were coming up among the holly-hocks 
 at the end of the veranda. She would speak to 
 Jose about those. And the bed of marigolds 
 across the path needed water they had been 
 shamefully neglected. When she came to the 
 hedge of oranges, she observed that all the 
 fruit from the side facing the house had been 
 
128 The King s Highway 
 
 gathered. Accordingly she walked through an 
 opening to the other side. Holding up her 
 skirt with one hand, she picked her way daint 
 ily through the dewy wheat, when suddenly 
 she noticed a spot a little way from the hedge 
 where something had crushed the growing 
 grain. Had the dogs been spoiling the wheat 
 again? Indignantly Dona Epifania made her 
 way thither. But it was no dog that had 
 crushed the grain this time. 
 
 It was characteristic of Dona Epifania that 
 she neither screamed nor fainted when she 
 came upon a young man apparently dead, face 
 downward in the grain at her feet. Instead, 
 she stooped and turned him over where he 
 lay. He was extremely handsome, and by his 
 appearance a gentleman, she observed. Then 
 she laid her hand over his heart. It still 
 beat, though rather faintly. 
 
 Inside of a few minutes, Dona Epifania had 
 summoned help and had installed the young 
 man in one of the best rooms in her house. 
 The Dona was sometimes accused of being 
 cold and lacking in sympathy; but she could 
 never be said to fail in generosity or hospital 
 ity. At her hands the poorest wayfarer always 
 received food, clothing and shelter according 
 to his need. If after this he asked her sympa 
 thy also, and in so doing came against a blank 
 
The King s Highway 129 
 
 wall, it was none of her fault. She had given 
 him all that she had to give what more 
 could she do? 
 
 Miguel however, when Dona Kpifania came 
 upon him in the wheat-field, was in more 
 direct need of someone to bind up his wounds 
 than of anyone to shower kind words upon 
 him. The good lady was therefore in her 
 element ; and in the space of a remarkably 
 short time everything that could possibly be 
 done for his welfare had been accomplished. 
 
 When, a few moments later, Rafaela ap- 
 pered on the scene, and seeing the unfor 
 tunate young man, apprised her aunt of the 
 fact that he was a friend of the San Juan 
 padre, and a prospective priest himself, Dona 
 Epifania redoubled her efforts in his behalf. 
 The Dona was a very religious woman, and 
 her respect and veneration for the priesthood 
 were marvelous. One of her two sons, who 
 had died in infancy, she had destined for the 
 Church had he lived ; and who shall say that, 
 at sight of this wounded young man almost a 
 priest, a tender chord in her seemingly hard 
 nature was not struck? At any rate the Dona 
 took it upon herself to care for Miguel with 
 her own hands ; and if he had been a king, he 
 would have received no better attention from 
 her. 
 
130 The King s Highway 
 
 As for Rafaela, she kept her thoughts on 
 the subject to herself. Had it not been for 
 the finding of Miguel in the wheat-field, 
 Dona Epifania would never have heard of 
 the return of the picture that Antonio had 
 carried, and all that it entailed. Since 
 she had come to live with her aunt after 
 the death of her father in the City of Mexico 
 early that spring, Rafaela had learned to 
 expect no sympathy from her. In matters of 
 food, dress, or anything of that sort, Rafaela 
 had found her slightest wish anticipated, but 
 otherwise she came to look for nothing. It 
 was natural, therefore, that she should grow 
 to keep her thoughts to herself. 
 
 But the presence of Miguel in the wheat- 
 field demanded explanation, and that explana 
 tion lay in the power of Rafaela to give. Dona 
 Epifania had not been at home during the 
 visit of Miguel the day before; and the story 
 of his coming required some information as 
 to his errand. The Dona said nothing at the 
 story of Antonio and the picture. But when 
 her niece suggested that it might be kind to 
 send word to the San Juan padre of the mis 
 fortune that had befallen the young man, she 
 scoffed. 
 
 "I shall not allow the good padre to be 
 worried needlessly," she declared with righte- 
 
The King s Highway 131 
 
 ous determination. "The boy will be up and 
 away on his journey in a few weeks, and the 
 good padre need be none the wiser until 
 afterwards." 
 
 From Miguel s conversation the day before, 
 Rafaela had inferred that the young man and 
 Padre Vicente loved each other deeply. If 
 she were in the padre s place, thought Rafaela, 
 she would want to know if anything had hap 
 pened to Miguel. But Dona Epifania decreed 
 otherwise, and Rafaela did not press her point. 
 It was wiser to refrain. 
 
 A week passed, and under the skilful min 
 istrations of Dona Epifania, Miguel was much 
 improved. The wound in his head, though 
 painful, had not proved serious; but his leg 
 had been badly sprained and took longer to 
 recover. As the young man grew better, he 
 required less attention in one way and more 
 in another. As long as he had needed wet 
 bandages on his head and hot cloths on his 
 leg, the Dona was ready to anticipate his 
 slightest want. But now that all he wished to 
 do was to sit in a big chair on the veranda 
 and be amused, she began to lose her interest. 
 She had too much to do to waste her time in 
 amusing any man even if he were a pros 
 pective priest. If he had been an archbishop, 
 or the Pope himself, it would have made no 
 
132 The King s Highway 
 
 difference. Dona Epifania would have made 
 sure that he was comfortably placed; that he 
 was neither hungry nor thirsty; and then her 
 personal attentions would have ceased, as they 
 did with Miguel. 
 
 As for that young man, he was content 
 enough to be left to the tender mercies of 
 Rafaela. Day by day he sat on the veranda 
 with her and his breviary his sole companions. 
 She was one of those rare souls who know 
 when to speak and when to be silent; and 
 Miguel found her presence sweet and gra 
 cious. Little by little she learned the story 
 of his miraculous rescue from the waves; his 
 life at San Juan ; the terrible earthquake ; his 
 dedication to the priesthood ; but above all, the 
 love of Padre Vicente. 
 
 "How you must love him !" she said gently 
 as they sat on the veranda one morning; he 
 with his fingers in his open breviary, she busy 
 with her needle. 
 
 "Yes," answered Miguel. "He is father and 
 mother both to me. Sometimes I think I love 
 him more than I could have loved both." 
 
 "A love passing the love of woman," quoted 
 Rafaela softly. 
 
 Miguel looked at her gratefully. How she 
 understood ! 
 
 "It is like that," he said slowly. 
 
The King s Highivay 133 
 
 "I think I never loved anyone so much," 
 went on Rafaela after a moment, "except my 
 mother, and she died when I was very little, 
 only ten years old. They say I am like her," 
 she added thoughtfully. 
 
 "She must have been very beautiful," re 
 plied Miguel. Then he realized what he had 
 said. He had not meant to say it, and shame 
 facedly he looked at Rafaela to see what effect 
 his words had had. But she did not appear 
 to have noticed the connection. 
 
 "She was wonderful," she said dreamily, and 
 for a moment her work fell unheeded in her 
 lap. "I thought that she was as beautiful as 
 the angels; and when she died, I am afraid I 
 prayed to her almost as mucn as I did the 
 Virgin! Do you think that was wrong?" 
 
 "No," said Miguel. 
 
 "The priest who confessed me said that it 
 was. Perhaps he was mistaken. Anyhow I 
 did not think it was wrong when I did it." 
 
 "It was not wrong," repeated Miguel. 
 
 "I am glad you do not think it was wrong," 
 she said simply. 
 
 They were both silent for awhile. Then 
 Rafaela spoke again. 
 
 "If my mother had lived, I think I should 
 never have promised to marry Antonio. But 
 my father wanted me to marry him, and I 
 
134 The King s Highway 
 
 knew no better I was only sixteen." She 
 smiled a bit absently. "He was twenty-six 
 then, handsome and dashing as he was when 
 you knew him." 
 
 Miguel nodded reminiscently. 
 
 "I thought I loved him," she continued 
 regretfully. "I was a child how should I 
 know that it was only a fancy?" 
 
 "She would have known your mother," 
 said Miguel quietly. How should he know 
 anything of a mother, he who had lived from 
 babyhood in a monastery? Yet, in some mys 
 terious way he did seem to know. 
 
 "For a while I went on thinking I loved 
 him," said Rafaela slowly. "Then I found 
 that I did not love him and that I never 
 could." She paused, as if reluctant to finish 
 the story she had begun ; but a look into 
 Miguel s black velvet eyes reassured her. 
 They said : "Tell me ; I will understand." 
 
 "It was like this," she said. "My mother 
 died on Easter Sunday, the year I was ten 
 years old. The year I was seventeen, the 
 thought came to me to offer a lily to her 
 memory on Easter Day. So I took the bulb 
 and cared for it myself." She paused, and 
 Miguel leaned forward in his chair. 
 
 "And it bloomed in time?" he queried 
 eagerly. 
 
The King s Highway 135 
 
 "Yes," answered Rafaela in a low tone, "it 
 bloomed in time." Something in her voice 
 was strangely uncertain, and for a moment 
 she looked across the fields to the south. 
 When her eyes met his again, they were per 
 ilously near to tears. 
 
 "It happened only three years ago this 
 spring," she said as if explaining something. 
 "My mother s lily bloomed, beautiful and pure 
 and white like her own soul. I was very happy 
 over it. I would take it to church on Easter 
 morning, and afterward 1 would put in on my 
 mother s grave." 
 
 Suddenly she turned to Miguel. 
 
 "I am telling you this," she said impulsively, 
 because you will understand. Some people 
 would think I was foolish." 
 
 "I shall understand," he said gravely. 
 
 "The lily meant a great deal to me," said the 
 girl evenly, "because it was pure and spot 
 less a fit offering to her memory ; and because 
 I had cared for it myself. It was mine to give. 
 But the night of the Friday before Easter, 
 something terrible happened. The lily was 
 growing in a jar in the courtyard, and that 
 night the dogs got to fighting and knocked 
 it over. They broke it in pieces my beautiful 
 lily was ruined." Rafaela hesitated, but a 
 
136 The King s Highway 
 
 glance at Miguel assured her of a sympathy 
 that was not to be doubted. 
 
 "I was heartbroken," she went on. "It was 
 not that mine was the only lily. There were 
 plenty of flowers in our garden, and the flower 
 market was full of them. My father would 
 have bought me a sheaf of lilies, but I would 
 have none of them. I had not watched over 
 those and cared for them as I had mine. And 
 then " her voice shook a little, but she 
 steadied it "then, the day after my lily was 
 killed, Antonio came in and found me crying. 
 He tried to comfort me, but he did not under 
 stand. Poor Antonio he really loved me." 
 she said pathetically. " He did not understand. 
 He went out to find me another lily. It was 
 late, and there were no more white lilies in 
 the flower market. But there were yellow 
 ones with dark, reddish spots tiger lilies. To 
 Antonio a lily was a lily. Perhaps he did not 
 even remember that mine had been white. He 
 brought me the spotted lily." 
 
 Miguel looked at her in horror. 
 
 "He brought you the spotted lily!" he 
 echoed. 
 
 "Yes." said Rafaela evenly. "He did not 
 think that the color would make any difference 
 to me that was what he said. But to carry 
 that yellow lily to church in place of my pure, 
 
The King s Highway 137 
 
 white one; to put the spotted flower on my 
 mother s grave I could not no, I could not 
 do it! Then I knew that I had never loved 
 Antonio and that I could never love him. 
 He said that I would learn to care for him, so 
 things went on as before. But I never did, 
 though I tried very hard ; for I felt kindly to 
 ward him. He loved me very much. But he 
 did not understand. The lily was not the 
 only thing it was the same with everything 
 else. He could not understand me ; I could 
 not love him. We were a sorry misfit," she 
 finished sadly, "yet he truly loved me. He 
 meant to be good to me poor Antonio." 
 
 For a moment neither spoke. Across the 
 pages of Miguel s breviary they looked at each 
 other. She thought: "You would have under 
 stood." He thought: "I should have known. 
 I could never have brought you the spotted 
 lily." 
 
 Suddenly Rafaela s face grew hot, and she 
 looked away. Seeing this, Miguel felt self-con 
 scious in her presence for the first time. Per 
 haps each guessed the other s thought who 
 knows? 
 
 Then the door opened, and old Rosa ap 
 peared, bearing Miguel s noon meal on a tray. 
 Her coming relieved the situation ; but Rafaela 
 did not speak of the lily again that morning. 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 The Hem of Her Garment 
 
 IN the house of the lone poplar the days 
 went by swiftly. May passed into June, 
 and the coming of summer touched all the 
 hills with brown. On the long veranda Miguel 
 still sat and listened to the linnets in the hedge 
 of oranges, and the noise of horses feet on 
 the King s Highway. In a few days he would 
 set out again on his journey into Mexico, and 
 Rafaela would be left behind. 
 
 Somehow, thought Miguel, they had never 
 been quite the same since .the morning when 
 she had told him the story of the lily. That 
 had been a crucial moment for both of them. 
 She knew that he was a man fit for love and 
 war, but he had been dedicated to the priest 
 hood. He knew that she was a woman born to 
 be loved, but he might not tell her so. Subtly 
 enough, these things, known before, were 
 written more largely on the horizon of both 
 man and woman after the story of the lily. 
 Words spoken now held a strange meaning; 
 and each read the other s actions in a different 
 light. And in the days that followed, they 
 
The King s Highway 139 
 
 found the fruit of the tree of knowledge both 
 bitter and sweet. 
 
 Long before the day came for his departure, 
 Miguel knew that he loved her. The know 
 ledge had not come to him suddenly; he had 
 grown into it slowly, and his conviction was 
 therefore the more sure. And now that he was 
 about to leave her, he knew that his love had 
 begun when he had first caught sight of her 
 under the palm trees at San Diego. Again and 
 again he saw her as she had looked then slim 
 and straight in her saddle, the gold of the 
 sun in her hair. The embers of Old Desire 
 smouldered no longer; they had flamed into 
 hot fire, and in his soul Miguel knew that 
 many waters could not quench it. For the 
 first time in his life the call of the King s 
 Highway was made plain to him. No longer 
 was it vague and far off, for Rafaela was 
 present with him. She it was who had 
 called him long ago when, as a child, 
 he had stood in the broad trail of the King s 
 Highway below San Juan Capistrano and 
 gazed hungrily into the distance. Though he 
 had not known, and she had not known, it was 
 so. He pictured her as she must have 
 looked then a little girl in a soft, 
 white dress with the sun in her hair, 
 playing in the courtyard garden of a 
 
140 The King s Highivay 
 
 house in the City of Mexico. Then he im 
 agined her lonely and forsaken in the great 
 house when her mother had died. For, though 
 Rafaela had not said it, Miguel knew that 
 her father had been one of those who did not 
 understand. Over the coming of Antonio 
 Terrazzas, Miguel did not linger very long; 
 but tenderly he thought of Rafaela as, a lily 
 herself for purity and beauty, she had wanted 
 to offer a spotless flower to the memory of 
 her mother. Then he burned with indignation 
 at Antonio s stupid blunder. Miguel could 
 never have done such a thing he would have 
 understood; he loved her more than Antonio 
 ever knew how to love. But he might not 
 tell her so. 
 
 An inexpressible pain surged over him as he 
 pondered this. She was his by right she had 
 been made for him ; yet he might not take her 
 for his own. The knowledge was at once 
 sweet and bitter. How he loved her, every 
 thing about her the gold of her dark hair 
 where the aureole of the sun lay across it, the 
 deep pools of her clear eyes, the rich tones 
 of her wonderful voice! He would gladly 
 have laid down his very life for her, yet he 
 might not tell her so! Many times in those 
 last days on the veranda, his soul cried out 
 for him to rise and take her in his arms. If 
 
The King s Highway 141 
 
 Rafaela happened to glance his way then, 
 she was frightened at the desire in his eyes. 
 But neither of them ever spoke. 
 
 The young man was fighting a hard fight. 
 It has been said that love is blind, but 
 strangely enough, Miguel saw now with a 
 clearer vision than before. He loved Rafaela, 
 but something else held him back. That some 
 thing else was not the Church ; it never 
 had been. He realized now what he had for 
 gotten years ago the true reason why the 
 battle went as it did when Padre Vicente 
 knelt by his bed one moonlight July night 
 at San Juan. The conflict that raged within 
 him now was not one between love and duty. 
 Miguel was torn between love and loyalty to 
 another love, and the struggle was far harder 
 than the other could have been. He had never 
 been a priest at heart, but he loved Padre 
 Vicente. He loved Rafaela too, madly, pas 
 sionately; yet his loyalty to the priest stood 
 firm. And, being the man that he was, Miguel 
 suffered intensely. As a boy browsing in the 
 Mission library at San Juan, he had once come 
 across the world-old question of the immovable 
 object in the path of the irresistable force. 
 He had carried the puzzle, as he carried all 
 his questions, to Padre Vicente. The padre 
 had laughed and told the little boy to try it and 
 
142 The King s Highway 
 
 see. But, not being able to find either the 
 irresistible force or the immovable object, 
 Miguel had been as much in the dark as ever. 
 The padre said that perhaps he would when he 
 grew up. Perhaps he would. 
 
 It was the eve of Miguel s departure from 
 the house of the lone poplar, and for the last 
 time he sat with Rafaela on the long veranda. 
 From the hedge of oranges came the evensong 
 of the linnets it was the hour of sunset. For 
 a long time neither had spoken. Then Miguel 
 looked up from the rose in his hands. 
 
 "I saw your aunt this afternoon," he said, 
 "and I told her that I could never thank her 
 enough for all that she has done for me. The 
 Senora Montijo is very kind. The saints will 
 bless her." 
 
 "Yes," answered Rafaela without enthusi 
 asm. 
 
 "And you too, senorita," went on Miguel 
 earnestly. "You have done even more than the 
 senora. I shall never forget your heavenly 
 kindness to me." 
 
 "Do not speak of it," returned Rafaela almost 
 coldly. "It is nothing." 
 
 "Nothing!" repeated Miguel warmly. "Noth 
 ing! You would not say that, senorita, if 
 you knew what you have been to me! Indeed 
 
The King s Highway 143 
 
 you would not say it!" Suddenly he stopped. 
 He had not meant to say so much. 
 
 She looked up, her clear direct gaze quite 
 unruffled. 
 
 "You should not speak of it it has been a 
 pleasure to me," she said in a matter of fact 
 way. "You have more than repaid anything 
 that I could do. You have understood." 
 
 Miguel wondered if she knew what her 
 words meant to him. For a moment he lost 
 himself. 
 
 "Then then you will not forget me?" he 
 asked eagerly. 
 
 "Forget you?" she echoed slowly. "No, I 
 shall not forget you." 
 
 Her words were simple, but to Miguel was 
 carried the conviction that she meant more 
 than she said. For a moment something 
 welled up in his throat and he could not speak. 
 He dared not look up, and as for her, she said 
 nothing. He wondered what she thought. 
 
 Suddenly old Don Lugarde, leaning on his 
 stick, shuffled around the corner of the house 
 and disappeared through the hedge of oranges. 
 At the sound of his footsteps Miguel started 
 almost guiltily. When he looked up, he saw 
 that Rafaela was trembling. She rose and 
 walked toward the door. Then she paused an 
 instant. 
 
144 The King s Highway 
 
 "You will pardon me if I go into the house," 
 she said rather uncertainly. "My aunt may 
 have something for me to do." Then she 
 disappeared through the door, and Miguel was 
 left alone. 
 
 That night he could not sleep. Through his 
 open window drifted the long, white glory of 
 the summer moon, and with it the mingled 
 odors of a thousand flowers. Miguel wondered 
 if Rafaela slept. Would she think of him 
 dream of him, perhaps, on this last night that 
 he lay under her roof? He tried to put the 
 thought from him as unseemly for a man in 
 his situation, but it would not leave his mind. 
 He had not spoken, nor had she ; but he 
 believed that she cared. He remembered that 
 he had counted Terrazzas happier asleep under 
 the spring grasses than alive and knowing that 
 Rafaela did not love him. But to love her, to 
 be loved again, and yet be forced to go away 
 and leave her was not that a thing infinitely 
 more hard to bear? 
 
 For he must go away and leave her. No 
 matter how much he loved her, no matter how 
 eagerly his thought followed her, he always 
 came back to that. It is not easy to forget the 
 saint one has loved and adored for twenty 
 years, especially if that saint is alive and 
 walking the earth. Incidentally, a saint who 
 
The King s Highway 145 
 
 has not tumbled off his pedestal after twenty 
 years of familiar intercourse with his adorer, 
 must be worthy the name. 
 
 No, though he would gladly give his life 
 for her, she could never be his. Loyalty to a 
 man, not to the Church, held him back. He 
 knew that now, and since he had taken no 
 vows as yet, he counted it no sin to think of 
 her. 
 
 Reverently he pictured to himself what life 
 would be if she were only his how he would 
 love her what he would not do for her! And 
 such a home as they would have together a 
 home such as he had dreamed of but never 
 known. He saw her beside the chimney with 
 him on winter evenings how r the w r arm fire 
 light would play over the glory of her hair 
 and eyes! But it were better not to think of 
 it, since it could never be. He would alw r ays 
 be alone a somber priest offering up endless 
 prayers before an altar that had never kindled 
 in his breast the holy fervor that burned in 
 Padre Vicente s. He had never been meant 
 for a priest, but Fate had contrived to make 
 him one. He was a man however, and he 
 would play the game ! 
 
 \Yith the thought of Padre Vicente came for 
 the first time the wonder if the priest had 
 ever passed through such a struggle as this. 
 
146 The King s Highway 
 
 Miguel remembered the story of the pearl told 
 in the garden of San Juan so long ago. 
 
 "He gave up everything home friends 
 the 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, how 
 ever, 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 
 
The King s Highway 147 
 
 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 
 
148 The King s Highway 
 
 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 weep 
 ing. 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 
 
The King s Highway 149 
 
 one moment, she would be his ! He loved her 
 nothing in heaven or earth could ever sepa 
 rate 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 south 
 ward 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. 
 
CHAPTER XIV. 
 The Shadow of the Cross 
 
 IN 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 rancheria 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. 
 
The King s Highway 151 
 
 Duran tapped impatiently with his fingers 
 upon the stone bench. 
 
 "I tell you it is no use to do anything at all," 
 he said. "They will not listen to a word from 
 us. Even now they are casting lots for the 
 vesture of the Church, as it were." 
 
 Despair was written upon Padre Vicente s 
 every feature. In the shadow of his cowl his 
 face looked old and worn. 
 
 "But surely they cannot mean to take away 
 the rightful heritage of the Church to drive 
 the people out of their homes," he insisted. 
 "I have long known that it was coming this 
 secularization ; but it cannot mean the end of 
 everything." 
 
 Duran smiled grimly. 
 
 "That is just what it will mean, dear 
 brother," he answered sadly, "when it does 
 come. Just when that may be, no one knows 
 yet certainly. It may be ten years, it may be 
 only one." 
 
 "But if parishes are formed, surely the 
 Church cannot lose everything," faltered Padre 
 Vicente. 
 
 An expression of bitterness passed across 
 Duran s face. 
 
 "You do not know them as I do these 
 Mexicans," he said. "They will not consider 
 us at all. We are Spaniards of the old school. 
 
152 The King s Highway 
 
 Yes, even now they pretend to suspect us of 
 intrigue against the republic! They will rob 
 the Church of everything that She possesses, 
 and then claim that it is done in the name 
 of justice and the welfare of the people they 
 have defrauded!" His voice, calm before, 
 quivered with emotion. "They are thieves 
 and robbers, and their eyes are on the fat of 
 the land. I tell you they will not leave us 
 or our people where to lay our heads !" he went 
 on indignantly. "We shall be among the dis 
 persed, being destitute, afflicted, wandering 
 in deserts and in mountains and in caves and 
 dens of the earth ! You know yourself that 
 they have filched from the Pious Fund till 
 there is a mere pittance left! It would beg 
 gar their miserable government to pay back 
 what they have stolen." 
 
 He paused for a moment, glancing down at 
 the violets along the garden path. "For a long 
 time I was like you, dear brother," he said 
 sadly. "I refused to believe that our work here 
 was at an end. But now I know that the last 
 days are come. Our beautiful gardens shall be 
 a plowed field. The spoilers will take the tiles 
 from our cloisters to roof their pig sties. They 
 will tear down the sacred stones of our 
 churches to build their houses. Our people, 
 the sheep of our pasture, they will scatter and 
 
The King s Highway 153 
 
 defraud and kill!" He opened his lips to say 
 more, but, seeing the look in the other s eyes, 
 stopped short. 
 
 "But the Church," cried Padre Vicente in a 
 voice of agony, "is there no appeal to Her?" 
 
 "To the Church?" echoed Duran, "no, 
 brother. The axe is already laid at the root of 
 the tree. The Church can do nothing." 
 
 "Then there is no hope to save anything 
 our labor is at an end." Padre Vicente spoke 
 as if to himself. 
 
 "The will of the good God is not always easy 
 to understand," said Duran, after a moment. 
 "We can do nothing but yield." 
 
 He rose and stood looking down at the hud 
 dled figure of Padre Vicente on the stone seat. 
 
 "No, we can do nothing but yield," he re 
 peated, after a moment. "Our people will be 
 like the martyrs of the early Church. They 
 shall all have their reward." 
 
 Padre Vicente turned burning eyes to the 
 face of the man in the path. 
 
 "May the good God have mercy upon our 
 people," he said, solemnly, "for they are not of 
 the stuff that martyrs are made of ! They are 
 the veriest children they are not strong men 
 except a few. In the hands of their spoilers 
 they will be as dead leaves in a winter wind !" 
 He paused as if the words choked him, then 
 
154 The King s Highway 
 
 hurried on, his voice shaking. "They could not 
 escape destruction if they would !" 
 
 With a stifled sob, Padre Vicente s head 
 went down on his knees. Gently Duran laid 
 his hand on the other s shoulder. 
 
 "Courage, dear brother, courage," he whis 
 pered. 
 
 Padre Vicente lifted his head. His eyes were 
 dry. 
 
 "God knows that I would give my life for 
 them!" he said. 
 
 "He knows," repeated Duran simply. 
 
 When Padre Vicente looked up again his 
 companion had gone. In the square-paved 
 path, where the padre presidente had stood, lay 
 a dark shadow cast by the great cross on the 
 belfried wall to the west of the garden. For 
 a moment the man on the bench gazed at the 
 shadow, silent, fascinated. A look of awe crept 
 into, his eyes, and he lifted them to the blue of 
 heaven. 
 
 "Though He slay me, yet will I trust Him," 
 quoted the priest reverently. 
 
 Then he rose and followed Duran into the 
 cloister. 
 
 * * 
 
 Harvest days were over, and from the south 
 came the rains, folding sleepy San Juan valley 
 in their soft, gray embrace. The mottled syca- 
 
The King s Highivay 155 
 
 mores had cast their leaves in yellow drifts at 
 their feet, and over all the hills crept a faint 
 shimmer of green. Winter had come. 
 
 To Padre Vicente, standing in the shelter 
 of the western colonnade, it seemed that har 
 vest days were over forever, not the harvest 
 of yellow wheat and ripe olives and purple 
 grapes ; but the harvest of souls, where he had 
 labored so long. The soft noise of the rain 
 water as it sang its way through the red tile 
 spouts at the edge of the roof said only one 
 thing to him. Forever forever forever. 
 The harvest was over forever. Somewhere 
 down there in the rain at the Mission gate the 
 King s Highway ran past southward to San 
 Luis Rey and San Diego ; northward to San 
 Gabriel and Santa Barbara, and all the rest of 
 the wonderful chain of Franciscan Missions. 
 Years ago, soldiers and friars of Spain had 
 taken possession of the land in the name of 
 the King of Spain and of the Holy Church of 
 God. To every loyal Franciscan then, the ap 
 pellation : "The King s Highway" had carried 
 a double meaning. The name referred to the 
 reigning monarch of Castile yes ; but above 
 all, to that great King of kings and Lord of 
 lords, whose footstool was the earth, and whose 
 throne was in the heavens. All claims of the 
 King of Spain to territory in the Californias 
 
156 The King s Highway 
 
 was wiped out now by the Mexican revolution. 
 Had that other King forsaken His heritage, 
 too? Padre Vicente could not believe that He 
 had, yet His will was not easy to understand. 
 Why should the good God permit the spoilure 
 of His Holy Church and the scattering of the 
 sheep of His pasture? Padre Vicente did not 
 know. Was it because His servants, the Mis 
 sion fathers, had not been faithful to their 
 trust? Honestly, Padre Vicente searched his 
 own heart, and knew that he had fought a good 
 fight. It was his belief that his brothers had 
 done the same. He knew that in the days of 
 the early Church God had allowed His people 
 to suffer persecution; that it had been in ac 
 cord with the divine will. Was the coming 
 upheaval here in accord with that will, too? 
 Why had the God of all the earth allowed a 
 splendid host of churches to be built all the 
 way from San Diego to San Rafael, only to let 
 them fall into the hands of greedy men, whose 
 god was gold? Padre Vicente s eyes searched 
 the gray heavens in vain. There was no an 
 swer. Only the softly falling rain sang in the 
 spouts at the edge of the roof forever for 
 ever forever. The harvest was over forever. 
 Slowly Padre Vicente paced the length of 
 the colonnade, his eyes bent upon the square 
 tiles of the floor. Why had God required of 
 
The King s Highivay 157 
 
 him the best years of his life, if everything was 
 to be a pitiful failure at the last? While it is 
 effective, sacrifice is sweet, but in a needless 
 renunciation there is no joy. As the priest 
 walked, his head sank upon his breast. His 
 eyes were half closed, but he saw far beyond 
 the square tiles of the floor looked almost 
 fearfully into a realm he had turned his back 
 resolutely upon for years. It was the Land of 
 What Might Have Been. 
 
 In every life into which stress comes, there 
 is a Land of What Might Have Been. For 
 years Padre Vicente had looked backward but 
 seldom, and never with lasting regret. The 
 present joy in the passion of service had 
 blotted out all else. But now, in the face of 
 the coming wreck of all that he had loved and 
 labored for, who shall say that Padre Vicente 
 was the less a saint because the past came 
 back to him insistently? 
 
 Because of his greater opportunities, Eva- 
 risto de Dios Artillaga had renounced more 
 than most men do in taking holy orders. He 
 had sacrificed much ; but his joy had been 
 great because to him the glory of God counted 
 more than the glory of the world. But now, 
 amid the threatened ruin of the fabric into 
 which he had woven the strands of his life, 
 
158 The King s Highway 
 
 the phantom of What Might Have Been beck 
 oned to him mockingly. 
 
 If he had never heard the call of the Church, 
 or, if hearing, had turned a deaf ear, how dif 
 ferent his life would have been! Possessed of 
 great personality and great wealth, he could 
 probably have attained his highest ambition. 
 Nothing would have been denied him ; material 
 welfare, home, friends, love all might have 
 been his. Love there had been Rafaela 
 Rafaela who loved him, whom he loved. Had 
 it been worth while, his renunciation of her? 
 Had her life been happy afterward? How 
 he had loved her! As if it had been yesterday, 
 Padre Vicente remembered his anguish the last 
 time he had looked upon her face. They had 
 said nothing to each other. He was walking 
 in the processional in the cathedral, a young 
 priest just ordained. She was kneeling in the 
 congregation, slim and straight, like a young 
 angel in her white gown. Only for an instant 
 her clear, high gaze met his as the procession 
 passed by; but that instant was with him 
 yet, thirty years after. The sacrifice had been 
 terrible. Had it been worth while was it 
 worth while now in the face of the wreck of 
 all that he had sacrificed for? He had offered 
 up his love and her s upon the altar of Holy 
 Church. It is all very well for a man to offer 
 
The King s Highway 159 
 
 himself a sacrifice to his zeal, but has he the 
 right to offer the happiness of the woman who 
 loves him also? Had he spoiled Rafaela s life 
 in offering up his own? There was no answer. 
 Only the rain in the tiles sang : Forever for 
 ever forever. Rafaela was lost to him for 
 ever. 
 
 Yes, right or wrong, the past was irrevocable 
 now. He had renounced all to serve Holy 
 Church in New Spain, and the forces of Holy 
 Church in New Spain were all but routed now. 
 He had builded his life into a tottering wall. 
 When the fall came he would be homeless and 
 friendless, a defeated man. The people whom 
 he had loved better than his own life might ap 
 peal to him in vain. He could not protect them 
 from their enemies. 
 
 And Miguel, whom he had loved also 
 Miguel was even now in Mexico on a fruitless 
 quest. Padre Vicente had thought to graft 
 young life into the old stock of the Mission 
 structure; but the axe was already laid at the 
 root of the tree, and no bud might blossom and 
 bear fruit now; it could only shrivel and die 
 where it was set. 
 
 In the gray light of the rainy afternoon, San 
 Juan Capistrano gloomed dull and cheerless. 
 To the tortured eye of the man in the shadow 
 of the colonnade, the walls were already 
 
160 The King s Highway 
 
 crumbling to decay, devastated by the pitiless 
 hand of enemies. He saw his beloved garden 
 a plowed field; his orchards neglected and 
 dying; the sacred altar, where he had spent so 
 many hours in prayer robbed of its gold and 
 silver; but, worst of all, his people, the sheep 
 of his pasture, a prey to the lusts of greedy 
 men. It must not be it could not be the 
 good God would not let it be! Yet Padre 
 Vicente knew that it would be. For years he 
 had steadily refused to see the ruin that stared 
 him in the face. He could not choose but see 
 it now. 
 
 Before the coming of Duran a week ago, 
 Padre Vicente had walked with a spring in his 
 step. He had held himself straight, and the 
 fire of youth had gleamed yet in his dark eyes. 
 At fifty-seven he had been still a young man. 
 Gently Duran had forced upon the priest the 
 realization he had refused to face for years, 
 and the knowledge had left him a changed 
 man. Bravely he had hoped against hope for 
 years; and now that the last hope was gone, 
 the spring dropped out of his step, the straight 
 lines of his shoulders began to sag, and the 
 fire slowly died from his eyes. At fifty-seven 
 Padre Vicente was already an old man. 
 
 Was the seeming defeat of God s Kingdom 
 in accord with His will? Did He know that 
 
The King s Highway 161 
 
 the heart of His servant was broken? Care 
 less of the cold rain that wet his shoulders 
 under the coarse, brown robe, Padre Vicente 
 sank to his knees in one of the corridor arches. 
 How long he prayed he did not know, but 
 when he rose to his feet, the Angelus was ring 
 ing. Cold and wet, with a dull ache in his 
 body from kneeling so long in the rain, Padre 
 Vicente hurried into the cloister. 
 
 That night the priest knelt until midnight 
 on the cold steps of the altar in the sanctuary. 
 The church was dark, and he could not see 
 the face of the Christ on the altar above him. 
 But he knew that it was there; and in that 
 hour it brought him comfort, though the only 
 prayer that came to his lips was the petition 
 voiced in that same place years before, when 
 all seemed dark : 
 
 "O Lord, save Thy people and bless Thine 
 heritage, 
 
 Govern them and lift them up forever!" 
 
 Then an overwhelming weariness, such as 
 he had never known, crept over him, and rising 
 from his cramped position on the cold stones, 
 he made his way to his cell. His shoulders 
 were still damp from the rain, and his head felt 
 strangely dull and heavy. Lying on his hard, 
 narrow bed, he fell into a restless sleep. Out 
 side, the rain in the tiles sang drearily and 
 
162 The King s Highway 
 
 mingled with his dreams : Forever forever 
 forever. The harvest was over forever. 
 * * * 
 
 A week later, the clouds had gone, and 
 everywhere the sun was shining on the clean 
 red of tiles and the polished, dark green of 
 oranges. Swallows twittered in the eaves, and 
 through all the cloister went the din of happy 
 labor. 
 
 That afternoon Padre Vicente rose from the 
 bed where he had lain for a week, and walked 
 unsteadily down the courtyard colonnade. 
 For fifty-seven years and more, he had known 
 nothing but perfect health ; and the fact that 
 he felt somewhat weak and uncertain now,- 
 annoyed him vaguely. At sight of the joy that 
 greeted him in all the dark faces along the 
 corridor, Padre Vicente smiled faintly. They 
 were the faces of his people, and he loved them. 
 At the south end of the corridor the priest 
 came upon old Pablo leaning upon his stick. 
 Joy leapt up in the wrinkled, mahogany face 
 of the old man. 
 
 "May all the saints be praised !" cried Pablo, 
 "for the good padre is well once more !" 
 
 The adoring eyes that he fixed upon the 
 padre s face were dim and of a bluish cast, like 
 those of an aged dog. Pablo was very old and 
 feeble. 
 
The King s Highway 163 
 
 "Blessed is he whom the Lord shall take 
 away from the wrath to come." Like a word 
 of prophecy the sentence rang in the ears of 
 Padre Vicente. 
 
 "The good God has blessed you, Pablo," 
 said the priest gently. "May His peace be 
 ever with you." Tenderly he placed his hand 
 upon the old man s head in a gesture of bless 
 ing, and silently passed on. 
 
 At the door that led into the padre s garden, 
 he paused a moment, then went in. All along 
 the path purple violets peered from underneath 
 the green of their leaves ; and from the great 
 oleander, east of the Church, came the hopeful 
 chirp of linnets. No longer did the rain sing 
 drearily in the tiles. Everything was alive 
 and rejoicing: the glorious sun, the springing 
 flowers, and the birds twittering among the 
 leaves. Sunlight lay across the garden, joyous, 
 yellow sunlight that sparkled on every rain- 
 washed leaf and gleamed on every satin petal. 
 Yet, with sunlight came shadows, too; for 
 there upon the tiled path at the feet of Padre 
 Vicente lay the shadow of the cross on the bel- 
 fried wall long and dark and straight the 
 shadow of the cross. 
 
 The priest saw the shadow, and a strange 
 look crept into his face. Silently he knelt and 
 
164 The King s Highway 
 
 kissed the place where the shadow lay. When 
 he rose his eyes were triumphant. 
 
 Dark and long and straight, the shadow of 
 the cross still lay along the path, growing 
 longer and darker as the sun sank lower in the 
 west. Involuntarily the priest bowed his 
 head. 
 
 "Behold the servant of the Lord be it unto 
 me according to Thy word," whispered Padre 
 Vicente. 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 Holy Orders 
 
 OVER the City of Mexico brooded the 
 eternal silences of the stars. Before 
 the little window of a cell in the cloister 
 of San Fernando sat a young man in the som 
 ber habit of a monk. Eagerly he pressed his 
 hot cheek against the grating of the window. 
 The far, white stars that gleamed yonder were 
 the same that shone over Capistrano, and the 
 house of the lone poplar at San Diego. Was 
 Rafaela watching the stars now? Feverishly 
 the young man bent his head, and kneeling, 
 tried to pray that the saints would keep the 
 beautiful Rafaela Montijo. But his petitions 
 brought him no comfort. 
 
 For Miguel was very unhappy. Day after 
 day he followed the wearisome round of pray 
 ers and tasks, but his heart was not in them. 
 When he tried to read his breviary, the clear, 
 frank eyes of Rafaela came between his and 
 the printed page. She looked at him from the 
 faces of frescoed angels, from the eyes of saints 
 over the altar. Wherever he went, he saw her 
 as she had looked that last morning in the gar 
 den when he had kissed the hem of her gar- 
 
166 The King s Highway 
 
 ment. He had spoken but one word to her: 
 "Rafaela!" She had understood, and she had 
 told him so in the one word that was her an 
 swer: "Miguel!" What a depth of tender 
 ness she had put into the exquisite inflection 
 of that one word ! She had gone away sud 
 denly then, without saying anything more ; 
 but he knew that she loved him. He could not 
 have been more sure of it if she had spoken 
 ten thousand impassioned syllables. That one 
 word was enough ; he knew. 
 
 In passionate memory he pressed the hem 
 of her garment to his lips once more, and the 
 scent of withered rose petals that had clung 
 about her filled his nostrils, almost suffocating 
 him with its sweetness. 
 
 "Rafaela!" he whispered brokenly. 
 
 A wave of agonized yearning surged over 
 him, and he laid his head upon the stone win 
 dow ledge. 
 
 "Dios mio Dios mio!" he repeated help 
 lessly. His whole frame trembled, and when 
 he rose, beads of sweat stood on his brow. 
 
 He crossed the room, then came back to the 
 window. After all, had he done right in leav 
 ing Rafaela and coming to Mexico, all because 
 of a promise given to Padre Vicente by a boy 
 too young to choose for himself? Miguel 
 knew that she loved him. Had it been right to 
 
The King s Highway 167 
 
 leave her among those who neither understood 
 nor loved her to sacrifice two lives on the 
 altar of a promise? And was it entirely right 
 to Padre Vicente to hide from him the fact 
 that Miguel could never render to the Church 
 more than a half-hearted service? 
 
 For nearly six months Miguel had been in 
 the cloister of San Fernando, and every day 
 the weary round of prayers and pious exer 
 cises had grown more irksome to him. He had 
 never been born for book and cassock and bell. 
 The blood that beat in his pulses might have 
 flowed in the veins of generations of fighting 
 men men who dared much in love and war; 
 it was hot enough, and it throbbed wildly 
 enough. At any rate, it was not the sort of 
 blood that ought to flow in the veins of a man 
 who wore the garb of a priest. A priest should 
 not strike a man across the face with his riding 
 whip. A priest should not fall madly in love 
 with a beautiful girl. He should not sit and 
 dream of her when he tells his beads. But 
 Miguel was not a priest at heart, though he 
 wore the habit, and had entered upon his no 
 vitiate. He shrank from the thought of the 
 final vows. Could he ever bring himself to 
 take them ? The young man did not know. 
 
 For surcease of . sorrow seemed as far off as 
 it had on the day of his departure from the 
 
168 The King s Highway 
 
 house of the lone poplar. There was scarcely 
 an hour in the day that the face of Rafaela, 
 with the aureole of the sun above it, did not 
 float before his eyes. He only slept to dream 
 of her. A man of less strength than his would 
 have broken away from the cloister long ago; 
 perhaps he would never have reached it in the 
 first place. Indeed, there had been times since 
 his arrival when Miguel had all but abandoned 
 everything to answer the silent call of the 
 woman he loved. But loyalty to Padre Vicente 
 had held him back. 
 
 Days passed, and a new side of the ques 
 tion came to light. As Miguel became ini 
 tiated into the sacred mysteries of the priest 
 hood, he believed that he saw with more of 
 the vision of Padre Vicente. Was it right to 
 enter holy orders when he could not give his 
 whole heart to the service of Holy Church? 
 For Miguel knew that he could never make a 
 whole-souled priest he had no vocation. 
 Even if he had not loved Rafaela, he would 
 still have had no vocation. Years ago, in Old 
 Spain, when Evaristo Artillaga had entered 
 holy orders, he had set aside a love as strong, 
 if not stronger than the love of Miguel for 
 Rafaela Montijo. He had done this because of 
 the greater passion that dominated his soul. 
 But with Miguel there was no greater passion 
 
The King s Highway 169 
 
 than his love for Rafaela. Ought he to sacrifice 
 all to the loyalty to a promise a promise lived 
 rather than spoken? If Padre Vicente knew, 
 would he want Miguel to offer up an empty 
 service where no heart was? Knowing the 
 heroic stature of the soul of the priest, Miguel 
 could not, in justice, answer yes. But the an 
 swer was hard, for he loved Padre Vicente. 
 He could not go to the priest and say, "I have 
 betrayed your trust, mistaken my calling 
 broken my promise and your heart." He could 
 not do that. What should he do? 
 
 The cold, white stars gave no sign. Per 
 haps even now they looked into the upturned 
 gaze of the priest of Capistrano perhaps the 
 clear, dark eyes of Rafaela caught their gleam. 
 For a long time Miguel stood before the win 
 dow. What should he say to Padre Vicente? 
 
 Then, suddenly, without any warning at all, 
 Miguel saw before him the face of Rafaela 
 Montijo. As on that last morning before the 
 hedge of oranges, there were traces of tears 
 on her face tears that she had shed for him 
 and the sight of her blotted out all else from 
 his eyes. In his soul, the hot flame of Old 
 Desire, wild, unreasoning and unconquerable, 
 rose up and stifled him with resistless passion. 
 She was his how could he ever have left her? 
 Stronger than the very breath of life itself, 
 
170 The King s Highway 
 
 stronger than any power in heaven above or 
 earth beneath was his love for her. He would 
 go to her as soon as it was light he would 
 arise and go to her. No longer could the clois 
 ter wall separate them. His blood danced 
 madly in his veins, and his nails bit savagely 
 into the palms of his hands. The eternal laws 
 of God said that she was his by right the God 
 of truth and justice did not require of him what 
 was not his to give, the sacrifice of a whole 
 heart. His whole heart was her s the good 
 God had given it to her. Miguel had not 
 meant to give it ; but nothing could ever take it 
 away from her now. She should have what 
 was her s by right ; she should have it speedily. 
 The very next morning, as soon as ever it was 
 light, he would leave the cloister and go to 
 her to Rafaela Montijo, the well beloved of 
 his soul ! At the very thought of her his 
 pulses tingled joyously, and he gripped the 
 iron bar of the window grating as if he would 
 crush it in his fingers. She was all his all ! 
 She loved him ; yes, she had even wept for 
 him ! Madre de Dios ! How her clear, dark 
 eyes would deepen into tender light when she 
 should see him again ! Yes, he would surely 
 go to her. He would take her in his arms, as 
 he had not done on that last morning when he 
 had kissed the hem of her garment. He would 
 
The King s Highway 171 
 
 tell her that he loved her that she was his, 
 she, Rafaela of his heart! 
 
 Weaned out, Miguel flung himself upon his 
 narrow bed. In a moment he was sleeping as 
 he had not slept since he had come to San Fer 
 nando, the dreamless sleep of youth. Silence 
 brooded over the cloister, and outside the stars 
 kept watch. 
 
 Early the next morning, with the call to 
 prayer, came a knock at Miguel s door. Won 
 dering, he opened the door. Outside waited 
 a brother with a letter in his hand. 
 
 "An urgent message," said the man simply. 
 He put the letter into Miguel s outstretched 
 hand, and went away silently. 
 
 At sight of the familiar handwriting on the 
 coarse, grayish white paper, Miguel changed 
 color. With trembling fingers he tore the seal 
 from the letter and devoured its contents 
 anxiously. The last word read, he crushed the 
 paper into his bosom with feverish haste, and 
 hurried out into the corridor. 
 
 The call to prayer rang insistently in his 
 ears now, but he did not heed it; neither did he 
 see the questioning faces of the brothers whom 
 he passed in the corridor. In his bosom, the 
 bit of crumpled, grayish paper burned him as 
 if it had been a coal of fire. He must find 
 someone must tell them that he was going 
 
172 The King s Highway 
 
 away that he must go at once to Padre 
 Vicente. As Miguel hurried along, the rosary 
 at his side slipped and fell to the stone floor 
 with a tinkling noise the silver rosary with 
 the ivory crucifix that Padre Vicente had given 
 him when he had set out on the King s 
 Highway last spring. He stooped to pick it 
 up. In the dim light of the corridor the ivory 
 crucifix gleamed white, and with a stifled cry, 
 Miguel pressed it to his lips. 
 
 "Padre Vicente," he whispered eagerly, 
 "Padre Vicente, forgive!" 
 
CHAPTER XVI. 
 A Dream of Old Spain 
 
 A,L along the yellow shore below San 
 Juan Point, the restless seawater 
 swirled and broke in a thousand 
 shifting lights of sapphire and amethyst and 
 pearl. Shining and cloudless, the great bowl 
 of the sky met in a long line the level plain of 
 the sea. Across the blue of heaven flashed the 
 white of a gull s wing, across the blue of the 
 water the delicate drift of spray ; but never the 
 shadow of a sail. It was the first of January, 
 and such a perfect day as can happen only in 
 midwinter on the California coast. From the 
 valley of peace to the southeast, drifted the 
 mellow voices of the bells of San Juan Capis- 
 trano. It was the hour before noon, and at 
 the sound of the bells, the Indians at work in 
 the fields would gather at the Mission for their 
 midday meal and siesta. 
 
 On the grassy slope of the sea cliff, sat 
 Padre Vicente. All morning he had worked 
 with the Indians among the orange orchards; 
 and, instead of going to the Mission at noon 
 as was his habit, he had chosen to eat his 
 frugal meal of parched corn on the cliff. The 
 
174 The King s Highway 
 
 corn disposed of, the priest sat for sometime 
 gazing out over the expanse of sparkling blue. 
 There was something essentially joyous in the 
 way each little wave leapt up to answer the 
 call of the wind ; something that pleased 
 Padre Vicente in the glint of the sun on the 
 water. His breviary lay unopened in his lap, 
 for his eyes were busy with that which was 
 written in a book not made with hands the 
 glory of God s earth. 
 
 It was a part of the nature of Padre Vicente 
 that he should love these things. Everything 
 the shifting play of kaleidoscopic tints in 
 the water before him, the soft touch of the 
 sea air on his face, the fresh, sweet smell of 
 the growing things about him, the velvety feel 
 of the young grass on his sandalled feet, and 
 the red-gold flame of an early poppy at his 
 side all these things brought him a quiet joy. 
 
 Years ago at a time like this, the priest 
 would almost unconsciously have lifted up his 
 voice in the ecstatic words of the Te Deum : 
 
 "Heaven and earth are full of the majesty 
 of Thy glory." 
 
 Today, though his appreciation of all the 
 beauty round about was no less keen, his 
 mood was rather that of the more quiet Nunc 
 Dimittis : 
 
 "Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart 
 in peace, 
 
The King s Highway 175 
 
 According to Thy word ; for mine eyes have 
 seen Thy salvation." 
 
 Padre Vicente did not sing the words. He 
 repeated them softly to himself, and the look 
 of peace in his eyes deepened until it became 
 almost rejoicing. 
 
 In the days that had passed since he had 
 knelt to kiss the shadow of the cross in the 
 cloister garden, the peace that passeth under 
 standing had come again to Padre Vicente. 
 The black threat of awful desolation lay writ 
 ten across every sunny sky for him, but be 
 yond the sky was the face of God. For years 
 the priest had labored among the Indians ; 
 baptizing, teaching, toiling, confessing, ad 
 ministering the last rites, and burying the 
 dead. Willingly, he would have died for his 
 people ; but already he had done more he had 
 lived for them. The good God had given him 
 strength for all these things, and He would 
 not fail His loyal servant now. In the hour of 
 blackest devastation His Presence would be 
 there. 
 
 "Lo, I am with you alway, even to the end 
 of the world." 
 
 As Padre Vicente sat on the cliff that sunny 
 noon, there came back to him the words of as 
 surance that he had spoken to Miguel when 
 Antonio Terrazzas had died nearly a year ago. 
 
176 The King s Highway 
 
 "The will of God is never cruel, Miguel," he 
 had said. "He could not be cruel, for He is 
 Love. I have lived a long while and I know." 
 And had he not known? Padre Vicente felt 
 that the words that he had spoken were true. 
 
 "We are not always happy, hijo mio," he 
 had said, "Sometimes our dearest hopes, 
 things we would give our life blood for, seem 
 wrecked before our eyes. That is hard very 
 hard, and we could not understand if this life 
 were all. But this life is not all. I know." 
 
 Padre Vicente knew. Heartbreaking ruin 
 might descend upon his people here, but the 
 good God would not forsake them forever. 
 
 "We therefore pray Thee, help Thy servants 
 
 Whom Thou hast redeemed with Thy 
 precious blood; 
 
 Make them to be numbered with Thy saints 
 in glory everlasting." 
 
 Padre Vicente s eyes glowed with hope in 
 vincible. The way was hard, cruel, almost 
 too terrible to conquer; but by the help of 
 God, he would conquer it, he and the people 
 that the Father had given him. The way was 
 dark, but at the end of the journey there would 
 be light. 
 
 "Thine eyes shall see the King in His 
 beauty ; they shall behold the land that is very 
 far off." 
 
The King s Highway 177 
 
 With a look on his face as if he would search 
 the very gate of heaven, Padre Vicente gazed 
 into the blue deeps above ; and when a shadow 
 fell across the cover of his breviary, he did not 
 look around at first. Then a soft footstep fell 
 in the grass at his side, and turning, he looked. 
 Peace died in his eyes. He struggled to his 
 feet. 
 
 Slim and straight in her riding habit of 
 black, Rafaela Montijo stood on the slope of 
 the cliff and looked down at him. Across the 
 dark veil of her hair sparkled the aureole of 
 the sun, and in her clear, direct eyes he saw 
 the same high look that he had known thirty 
 years ago. Wondering, she came down to 
 where he stood, and gazed steadfastly into his 
 face. Yes, this was surely Padre Vicente. 
 Only Miguel had not told her that his hair was 
 growing white about the temples. 
 
 "You are Padre Vicente Artillaga," she said 
 simply. "I am Rafaela Montijo, to whom you 
 sent a letter and a picture last May. I am in 
 trouble, and I have come to you because you 
 are the only person that can help me." 
 
 Standing there looking at her, Padre Vicente 
 swayed uncertainly, and put out a hand as if 
 to steady himself. Rafaela saw the motion, 
 and started forward to support him. 
 
178 The King s Highway 
 
 "You are not well, padre," she cried anxious 
 ly. "I have startled you let me help 
 
 "No, my daughter," said the priest quietly. 
 "It is nothing. I am quite well. Sit down on 
 the grass and tell me your trouble." There 
 was an infinite tenderness in his voice, and 
 Rafaela looked at him gratefully. 
 
 Together the priest and the girl sat down on 
 the grassy slope. Mingled with the sympathy 
 in the man s eyes was a look of mute suffering 
 that Rafaela could not fathom. She saw that 
 it was there, however, and her heart went out 
 to the man in the coarse, brown robe. 
 
 "I knew that you would be like this, padre," 
 she said impulsively, "so beautiful and kind. I 
 was afraid to come at first, but I knew that it 
 was the only thing to do. The good God has 
 led me here, padre." 
 
 "May His blessing be upon you, my daugh 
 ter," said Padre Vicente, and his voice, though 
 tender, was strangely shaken. 
 
 "I am visiting friends on a ranch toward San 
 Gabriel, and this morning I rode to Capistrano 
 on my horse." She glanced backward to where 
 a white horse cropped the herbage leisurely. 
 "When I came there, they told me that you 
 were here, and a little Indian called Juanito 
 showed me the way. ... I think, for you to 
 
The King s Highway 179 
 
 understand, I must tell you about my mother 
 first," she went on slowly. 
 
 Her mother! Did the girl know that she 
 was the very reincarnation of her mother? Did 
 
 she know that her mother had been ? A 
 
 terrible storm surged within the breast of the 
 priest, so terrible that he could scarcely 
 breathe. Thirty years count a long time in the 
 life of a man, but sometimes thirty years can 
 be as one day. Across the years, Padre 
 Vicente looked into the face of the woman for 
 whom he had known a love that was stronger 
 than death ; but the eyes that he fixed upon the 
 face of her daughter gave no sign of the tumult 
 that raged within him. 
 
 "Tell me about your mother," he said stead- 
 ily. 
 
 "They say that I am very like her," said 
 Rafaela. "When my mother was a girl in Old 
 Spain, she met a young man who was study 
 ing to be a priest. I do not know his name. 
 They loved each other, but they might not 
 marry, because he was destined for the Church. 
 He went aw r ay, I do not know where ; but I be 
 lieve that she never left off loving him while 
 she lived. She never told me so, but I believe 
 that that is true." 
 
 As long as she lived! The question un- 
 
180 The King s Highway 
 
 answered for thirty years trembled on the lips 
 of Padre Vicente, but he held his peace. 
 
 "She married my father not very long after," 
 the girl went on, "and came to live in the City 
 of Mexico. But she was never happy. When 
 I was a child, I used to wonder why my mother 
 was sad so often, and seldom laughed. Now I 
 know." Rafaela paused to gather a tiny, yel 
 low field daisy that grew at her feet. "It was 
 because she did not love my father," she said. 
 "She could not love him they were not alike 
 in anything. What he loved she hated, and 
 what she loved he did not care for. I did not 
 know when I was a child, but I think now that 
 her life must have been very dreary. She died 
 when I was only ten years old, and I thought 
 that the very sun was darkened." Her voice 
 quivered. 
 
 Fire that had slept in ashes for years smould 
 ered anew in Padre Vicente s dark eyes. 
 Rafaela, his soul s beloved, had died, not many 
 years ago the unhappy wife of a man she did 
 not love. Oh, the infinite pity of it! And he 
 had been the cause of it all if he had not left 
 her for the service of Holy Church, it could 
 never have happened. Madre de Dios ! How 
 he, Evaristo Artillaga, would have loved her 
 and cared for her as the very apple of his 
 eye he would have guarded her! But the past 
 
The King s Highway 181 
 
 was gone now. He might look across the 
 years, but he might not change their tale. With 
 his own hand he had placed the woman he lov 
 ed out of his reach, like a saint in a niche. She 
 had been dead for years now. Her daughter, 
 who might have been his, was with him now. 
 She was in trouble, and she had come to him 
 for help. Tenderly Padre Vicente turned to 
 the girl at his side. 
 
 "Tell me about yourself," he said gently. 
 
 A suspicion of tears dimmed the clear gaze 
 she lifted to his. 
 
 "I will tell you, padre," she said. "When I 
 grew older, I was betrothed to a man I fancied 
 I loved Antonio Terrazzas. You knew him. 
 I never loved him, but that does not matter 
 now, for he is dead. Last spring my father 
 died too, and I came to live with my aunt, 
 Dona Epifania Montijo, above San Diego. I 
 was there when you sent me the picture by the 
 hand of Don Miguel Artillaga." She hesitated. 
 "When Don Miguel left the house after bring 
 ing the picture, it was growing dark. Some 
 one knocked him down on the road, and drag 
 ged him into a field below the house. I never 
 knew how it happened, for he did not tell me. 
 But the next morning my aunt found him lying 
 as if he were dead, under the orange hedge 
 south of the house. She had him brought in, 
 
182 The King s Highway 
 
 and nursed him until he was well. I saw a 
 great deal of him then." 
 
 Until now, Rafaela s voice had been fairly 
 calm almost apathetic at times. Suddenly 
 she leaned forward, her whole body tense, her 
 face aflame. 
 
 "Padre" she breathed, "I loved him he 
 loved me ! We never said but one word to 
 each other about it, but we both knew. I 
 shall never stop loving him I cannot. He 
 can never stop loving me. I know there is no 
 forgetting." 
 
 The world-old passion in her eyes clutched 
 wildly at the heart of Padre Vicente. For an 
 instant, the sea and the sky and the woman in 
 the grass beside him whirled madly before his 
 face. With a sudden effort he gained control 
 of his senses. 
 
 "He went away, but he loves me still," she 
 was saying. He has said nothing since, but I 
 know that he cannot forget. I have tried to 
 forget, but I cannot. I shall never forget." 
 
 Her voice carried conviction to Padre 
 Vicente. No, she would never forget. 
 
 "I know now how it was with my mother 
 when she loved the priest," said Rafaela more 
 quietly. "At first I thought I was committing 
 sin in loving Don Miguel, since he was destin 
 ed for holy orders. But now I know that it 
 
The King s Highway 183 
 
 was no sin. Don Miguel was never meant for 
 a priest." Her voice quivered again, and she 
 clasped her hands eagerly, letting fall the little 
 yellow daisy. "Ever since I first saw him, I 
 knew that he was no priest someone had 
 made a mistake. The good God had meant 
 him for a soldier, a lover, anything but a 
 priest ! My mother was unhappy always. Per 
 haps God chose the man she loved to be a 
 priest ; perhaps it was right that she should be 
 unhappy. I do not know. But I do know 
 that the good God has not chosen Don Miguel 
 for a priest someone has made a mistake. He 
 can never make a true priest he can never be 
 happy! I know it I know it I know it!" 
 
 Her voice, lifted in an agony of appeal, rang 
 insistently in the ears of Padre Vicente. 
 
 "It is not right that we should both suffer 
 because someone has made a mistake. If he 
 were truly called to be a priest, it would be 
 different, but he is not called. Therefore we 
 have not committed sin. But I could not go to 
 him and say : You are mistaken you love me 
 leave being a priest for my sake. Santisima, 
 no, I could not do that. So for a long time I 
 prayed to the Holy Mother of God to tell me 
 what to do. She put it into my heart to come 
 to you, padre. You would understand. You 
 
184 The King s Highway 
 
 would know how to help me. No one else 
 could/ Her voice ceased. 
 
 Above the dash of the waves below the cliff 
 sounded the shrill cry of a seagull. Among the 
 little, white forget-me-nots in the grass a bee 
 hummed noisily. For a while Padre Vicente 
 said nothing. Then he turned to the woman 
 at his side. 
 
 "Your faith in me is very great, my daugh 
 ter," he said gently. 
 
 Impulsively Rafaela laid her slim hand 
 across the work-stained fingers of the priest. 
 
 "You are like a saint," she said reverently. 
 "I know that you can help me, and I know that 
 you will." 
 
 Her touch, soft and light as the petals of liv 
 ing roses, sent a thrill of exquisite pain into 
 the heart of Padre Vicente. His hand trem 
 bled, and he drew it away. He had known 
 only the fragrance he had never touched the 
 petals of his roses. 
 
 "I am no saint at all, my daughter," he said 
 slowly, and there was a little choke in his 
 voice. "I am only a man weak and tempted 
 as other men are. But I think that I can help 
 you, and what I can, I will do." 
 
 Joy transfigured the face of Rafaela. Tears 
 trembled in her clear eyes. 
 
 "Padre," she whispered, "padre ! I would 
 
The King s Highway 185 
 
 give my soul for you I could pray to you if 
 you would let me, padre!" She clasped her 
 hands, and would have knelt before him, but 
 with a look of pain in his eyes, he motioned her 
 back. They both arose. 
 
 "Daughter, I am not worthy that anyone 
 should pray to me," said the priest humbly. 
 "God knows that I am most unworthy. But I 
 will write to Don Miguel to come. You shall 
 have what is your own, beloved." 
 
 How should Rafaela know that the tender 
 light in his eyes was not for her alone? 
 
 "I will kneel before you, padre," she pro 
 tested earnestly, "for your blessing. I ask one 
 more thing at your hands your blessing." 
 Silently she sank to her knees in the grass at 
 his feet, and bowed her head. Padre Vicente 
 lifted his eyes to heaven, and extended his 
 hand in a gesture of benediction. 
 
 "May the good God bless you and keep you," 
 he said. 
 
 When the girl rose, her face was like the 
 face of the angel in the sacristy at San Juan. 
 
 "Adios, padre," said Rafaela Montijo. Then 
 she mounted her horse and rode away. 
 
 For a moment Padre Vicente stood gazing 
 after her, until she disappeared in a dip of the 
 hills. Then he set out and walked slowly back 
 across the fields toward the Mission. When he 
 
186 The King s Highway 
 
 came there, he said not a word to anyone, but 
 went straight to his little whitewashed room 
 that opened off the courtyard colonnade. Sit 
 ting down at the square table before the re 
 cessed window, he took out a sheet of coarse, 
 grayish white paper; and, dipping his quill in 
 the old carved silver inkstand, wrote the fol 
 lowing letter in a firm hand : 
 "Hijo Mio: 
 
 "When this comes to your hand, leave every 
 thing, and come to San Juan Capistrano at 
 once. Why, I cannot explain here; but I 
 think you will not be sorry hereafter. I have 
 a very important message for you, and I would 
 that you lingered not at all, but made what 
 ever speed possible. 
 
 "May the peace of God, which passeth all 
 understanding, be with you. 
 
 "Padre Vicente Artillaga." 
 
 With great deliberation, the priest dried the 
 ink and folded the paper. He traced the su 
 perscription in his precise, Spanish hand ; then, 
 heating a stick of dark red wax in the flame of 
 a candle that burned before the Christ in the 
 niche by the window, he sealed the paper. The 
 letter was finished and ready to send. With 
 care, Padre Vicente placed it on the corner of 
 the table. 
 
 For a moment the priest looked out through 
 
The King s Highway 187 
 
 the rose-vines as if he saw someone a great 
 way beyond them ; but the corridor outside 
 was deserted. A strange expression crossed 
 his face. Lifting to his lips the fingers that 
 the hand of Rafaela had touched, he kissed 
 them passionately. Then he hid his face in 
 his hands on the table where the picture of 
 Rafaela had lain, and sobbed as if his heart 
 would break. 
 
CHAPTER XVII. 
 The Cloister Gate 
 
 A^LEAR DAY at that season of the 
 year in Alta California when winter 
 drifts almost imperceptibly into 
 spring. A gentle breath of wind urging lazily 
 before it masses of cloud as soft and white as 
 a seagull s breast; green hills and fields sown 
 with blue and royal purple and red-gold ; wide 
 stretches of orchard fragrant under a gently- 
 tossing foam of wonderful pink and white 
 bloom ; the cheerful crackle of flocking black 
 birds and the liquid note of a meadowlark; 
 new life everywhere new life rejoicing in its 
 own strength, new life rejoicing in the world- 
 old call to a new love. Late on the afternoon 
 of such a day as this, Miguel rode into San 
 Juan Capistrano on the King s Highway, and 
 cared not at all for the glory of field or hill or 
 sky. The blue of heaven might have been hid 
 den behind lowering clouds, the blooming 
 fields wrapped in gray rain, the birds silent; 
 he would not have cared at all. Last spring 
 he had galloped madly southward on the 
 King s Highway, his head awhirl with joy, his 
 heart on fire. This spring he rode back at a 
 
The King s Highivay 189 
 
 walk, and the weary feet of his crawling mount 
 were not heavier than his heart. 
 
 At the Mission gate, a little group of Mexi 
 can cavalrymen were bickering with a crowd 
 of Indians over a basket of fish. The Mexicans 
 glanced curiously at the tall, young man 
 astride the gray horse, but the Indians made 
 way for him respectfully. They knew Don 
 Miguel de Dios Artillaga, but it was evident 
 that they were surprised to see him here. 
 Though courteous, Miguel made short work of 
 his greetings to the Indians ; and, giving his 
 horse into the hands of Juanito, he made his 
 way into the Mission courtyard. Old Pablo, 
 leaning on his stick in the afternoon sun, hob 
 bled forward to meet him. 
 
 "Glory be to God!" wheezed the old man. 
 "I had thought never to see Don Miguel 
 more !" 
 
 "Dear Pablo," answered Miguel gently, 
 "what I have come for, Dios sabe! Pablo, do 
 you know where Padre Vicente is?" 
 
 "Si, Don Miguel, si," whispered old Pablo 
 in his husky voice. "The good padre is in the 
 almond orchard to look at the trees. He " 
 
 But before the old Indian could finish, 
 Miguel was crossing the courtyard. The dim 
 eyes of old Pablo followed the young man 
 
190 The King s Highway 
 
 wistfully until he passed under an archway 
 and was gone. 
 
 White and faintly pink like sea-spray in the 
 pale rose of sunset, a delicate foam of bloom 
 filled all the almond orchard with the pungent 
 odor of fresh honey. The bees hummed lazily 
 in the trees, and Padre Vicente, walking in 
 the orchard, looked up to where their glisten 
 ing wings flashed among the flowering 
 branches. The promised yield was great; in 
 the almond orchard the harvests were not yet 
 over. The trees would go on blossoming and 
 bearing fruit until they died or were cut down. 
 Was it not also the will of the good God that 
 His priest should remain faithful to the end? 
 
 "Be thou faithful unto death, and I will give 
 thee a crown of life." 
 
 As if he would search the heart of the 
 flowers, Padre Vicente reached out his hand 
 and drew a blossom-loaded branch toward 
 him. The long, brown sleeve of his robe 
 caught on a twig, and a shower of soft, white 
 petals fluttered down, lodging on the priest s 
 shoulders and in the folds of his robe. Then 
 he heard a footfall on the ground behind him. 
 
 "Padre Vicente!" cried Miguel, and cast his 
 arms about the priest s neck as he used to do 
 when a child. 
 
 "Miguelito mio!" Almost unconsciously the 
 
The King s Highway 191 
 
 endearing, childish name slipped from the lips 
 of Padre Vicente. The arm that he placed 
 about the shoulders of the young man trem 
 bled, and Miguel felt it. 
 
 "Padre!" Miguel s voice was appealing. 
 "Padre I have a confession to make." Once 
 more under the spell of the magnetic person 
 ality of the priest, he looked adoringly into the 
 deep eyes. "You will forgive," he said loyally. 
 
 "You shall not confess to me." Padre Vi 
 cente s hand was steady now. He took it away 
 from Miguel s shoulder, and stood looking ten 
 derly into the young man s face. "I know 
 everything, and there is nothing for me to for 
 give. Rather should I ask you to forgive me." 
 
 Blank amazement was written across Mi 
 guel s open countenance. 
 
 "But padre " he began. 
 
 "There is no but/ hijo mio," interrupted the 
 priest. "Let us sit down, and I will tell you 
 why I sent for you to come." 
 
 Together the two sat down in the filmy 
 shade of the almond trees. 
 
 "Miguelito mio," murmured Padre Vicente, 
 caressingly, "Miguelito mio," I have loved you, 
 hijo mio, more than you can ever know. But 
 I have been mistaken. I thought that the 
 good God had called you to be a priest to His 
 people I thought that you would be like new 
 
192 The King s Highway 
 
 life in the priesthood of Holy Church here in 
 New Spain. It was my belief my dream 
 you were as one sent you were to do great 
 things for my poor people. But I was mis 
 taken. God has willed otherwise. He has 
 not chosen you to be priest, hijo mio." 
 
 Miguel flushed hotly under his dark skin. 
 
 "Padre " he stammered painfully, but got 
 no further. 
 
 "Thanks to the wisdom of the good God, I 
 know that. I have been mistaken," the priest 
 went on evenly. "I have seen her Rafaela 
 Montijo, and I know." 
 
 All the blood left Miguel s face. 
 
 "You have seen her Rafaela Montijo " he 
 repeated blankly. 
 
 "Yes, I have seen her," answered Padre Vi 
 cente. "You love her, Miguelito mio." His 
 voice was a bit unsteady, but he went on. "She 
 loves you. Nothing must ever separate you 
 from loving her nothing else is worth while 
 now." 
 
 A curiously chastened look passed across 
 the priest s face. He laid his work-roughened 
 hand over Miguel s strong, brown one where 
 it lay almost hidden in the grass. 
 
 "You do love her," he said with the shade of 
 a question in his tone. 
 
 With a sudden motion, Miguel buried his 
 
The King s Highway 193 
 
 face in Padre Vicente s coarse, brown robe. 
 His shoulders heaved convulsively. Then he 
 lifted his head, a hint of tears in his black vel 
 vet eyes. 
 
 "I love her no one can ever know how 
 much !" he whispered brokenly. 
 
 "I know," said Padre Vicente. 
 
 Startled, Miguel looked into the priest s 
 eyes. As a child he had said to old Rosario: 
 "My padre knows everything." A man now, 
 he found that blind faith still unshaken. It 
 did not occur to him to ask how Padre Vi 
 cente had come by his knowledge. With the 
 easy acquiesence of one in a dream, the young 
 man stared eagerly into the other s face. 
 
 "You love her," continued the priest calmly. 
 "You shall marry her. You have made no 
 vows to the Church ; I release you from all 
 promises to me. Go to her take her in your 
 arms tell her that you love her. It shall be 
 your happiness and mine." 
 
 But Miguel did not hear the last sentence. 
 Shaking off the blank amazement that had 
 clung to him, he sprang to his feet, brushing 
 down a shower of snowy almond petals about 
 his head. The light of a great love burned in 
 his eyes, and for a moment he did not see the 
 man in the coarse, brown robe in the shade at 
 the foot of the tree. Instead, he saw Rafaela 
 
194 The King s Highway 
 
 Montijo as he had seen her on that last morn 
 ing at the house of the lone poplar, a sort of 
 exaltation in her eyes the eyes that had shed 
 tears for love of him. 
 
 "You must not ask her to share your pov 
 erty." Padre Vicente s words broke rudely in 
 upon the young man s reverie. Miguel looked 
 down and met the strangely detached gaze of 
 the man under the tree. 
 
 "I have nothing of my own," said the man. 
 "But there is a goodly sum held in trust for me 
 in Spain part of my father s fortune. It was 
 not to be used for the Church, so it has never 
 been touched. You shall have it all, Miguel 
 of my heart." 
 
 Miguel s face changed. Swiftly he fell to 
 his knees in the petal-strewn grass at the 
 priest s sandalled feet. 
 
 "No Santisima! no!" he cried penitently. 
 "No ! I cannot take your money, padre! I 
 do not deserve it no !" 
 
 "The money is not mine. You will take it 
 I command you to take it." Padre Vicente s 
 voice was tender, yet there was something in 
 it that would not brook opposition. A faint, 
 inscrutable smile played about the corners of 
 his mouth. "It is a very small part of a debt 
 that I owe/ he said. "It will help to make 
 
The King s Highway 195 
 
 you and someone else very happy. You will 
 take the money/ 
 
 Under the gentle dominance of the elder 
 man s personality, Miguel bowed submissive- 
 
 iy. 
 
 "There is no way to thank you enough," he 
 whispered. 
 
 The smile still hovered about the corners of 
 the priest s mouth. 
 
 "A man does not require thanks for the pay 
 ment of his just debts," he said firmly, and 
 there was something in his eyes and his voice 
 that kept Miguel from asking what that just 
 debt was. "Get up, Miguel." 
 
 The young man rose to his feet. Then he 
 turned his eyes upon Padre Vicente s face. The 
 almond petals in the folds of the priest s robe 
 were not whiter than the hair at his temples, 
 and to Miguel it seemed that the man looked 
 old and tired. 
 
 "Padre!" he cried unsteadily, "padre you 
 are tired! You have worked too hard here 
 you must leave it all you must come to stay 
 in the home that the money will buy! Say 
 that you will come padre mio!" 
 
 For a moment the priest did not speak. His 
 eyes were upon the peace of the scene about 
 him the calm before the storm. 
 
 "The good God knows that I should love to 
 
196 The King s Highway 
 
 be with you, Miguel," he said. "But my peo 
 ple need me I am never tired of working for 
 them. If anything should happen to drive 
 them out of their homes, they would need me 
 more than ever. As long as they need me, I 
 will stay. . . . But I shall always pray for the 
 blessing of God upon you, Miguel, you and 
 Rafaela Montijo." 
 
 At first, Miguel s face clouded, but at men 
 tion of Rafaela, joy flamed up in his eyes. At 
 sight of the unspeakable happiness written 
 there, the shadow of remembered pain flitted 
 across Padre Vicente s strong features. He 
 lifted his eyes to where the white almond 
 flowers and the blue of heaven mingled in an 
 exquisite mosaic of turquoise and pearl. Be 
 yond the tossing foam of snowy bloom, a thin 
 line of blue smoke curled slowly upward from 
 the big kitchen chimney that looked so much 
 like a fanciful dove-cote. Could cruel desola 
 tion ever lay waste this peaceful fold of Holy 
 Church? Padre Vicente knew that it could. 
 He stood up, and turned again to Miguel. 
 
 "Listen, hijo mio," he said slowly. "I am 
 giving you only what is your own your free 
 dom. And the good God knows that in so far 
 as I do give it to you, I give it out of a whole 
 heart." He paused to lay his hand affection- 
 
The King s Highway 19? 
 
 ately upon the other s head. "Your happiness 
 shall be mine," he finished. 
 
 The wonderful joy in Miguel s eyes deep 
 ened. 
 
 "Madre de Dios, but you are a saint!" he 
 cried impetuously, "a very saint from heaven 
 you " But he got no farther. 
 
 "No," said Padre Vicente calmly, "not a 
 saint, but a man very like other men." Sud 
 denly his manner became imperious. "But 
 you are going to her to Rafaela Montijo," he 
 went on almost eagerly. "You will want to 
 start now you are tired, but I know that you 
 want to start now so that you can be in San 
 Diego tomorrow morning." 
 
 Miguel stared at Padre Vicente. How 
 should the priest be able to read his thoughts 
 so plainly? All at once the young man realiz 
 ed that he had not asked a single question 
 since the two had met in the orchard that after 
 noon. He had taken everything on faith, mak 
 ing no inquiries, and he made none now. 
 
 "You must have something to eat and to 
 drink," went on the priest, and you must rest 
 a while before you start. Then you will want 
 a fresh horse." Padre Vicente s manner be 
 came strangely exalted. "You will reach San 
 Diego in the morning. She will be waiting for 
 you!" he cried joyfully. Then he placed his 
 
198 The King s Highway 
 
 two hands on the young man s shoulders, and 
 looked steadfastly into the black velvet eyes. 
 
 "Hijo mio," he said in a voice that was vi 
 brant with feeling, "hijo mio you love Rafaela 
 Montijo. You can never know a holier thing 
 than love of her. Promise me that you will 
 never let it go." 
 
 Miguel did not waver. 
 
 "I give my promise, padre," he said solemn 
 ly. "The good God knows I cannot choose 
 
 but keep it." 
 
 * * * 
 
 An hour passed. Over the valley of the 
 Mission of the Crusader Saint burned the win 
 ter sunset, deepening into rose and fiery 
 amethyst along the eastern hilltops. South 
 ward on the King s Highway, between fields of 
 sweet-breathed grass, rode Don Miguel de 
 Dios Artillaga. In his face glowed joy un 
 speakable, in his heart joy unthinkable. He 
 was tired, but he had forgotten that for love of 
 Rafaela Montijo and he would ride all night 
 that he might see her and tell her of his love. 
 From the thickets to the south of the little 
 valley the long-drawn cry of a night bird fore 
 told the coming darkness, but to Miguel the 
 sound brought only a thrill of joy. He was 
 going to her Rafaela Montijo, and already 
 the day had dawned in his heart. 
 
The King s Highicay 199 
 
 In a shadow by the Mission gate, Padre Vi 
 cente stood and watched Miguel until he dis 
 appeared over the hill on the King s Highway. 
 From the cloisters came the murmur of voices, 
 but the priest did not stir. For a long time he 
 stood straining his eyes into the gathering 
 dusk. When at last, ashes of roses had dulled 
 all the gleaming amethyst and fire glow of the 
 hill tops, he knelt for a moment, his eyes lifted 
 to where the first star of evening glimmered 
 palely. Slowly he rose to his feet. Again 
 there came to his ears the uncertain murmur 
 of happy, human voices. He turned now, and 
 a faint smile crossed his face. Then he entered 
 the cloister gate and shut it steadfastly behind 
 him. 
 
 THE END 
 

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