They ran down the tunnel. It was wide and high, built for flying priests, should the Mission be besieged and captured by savage tribes. The air was close and heavy, but free from noxious gases. Bats whirred past and rats scampered before them. Roldan paused after a moment and lit his lantern. Its thin ray leaped but a few feet ahead, but would frighten away any wild beast of the forest that might have wandered in.
The tunnel was straight. It also appeared to be endless.
"We have walked twenty leagues," groaned Adan, at the end of an hour.
"Two," said Roldan. "Without doubt this tunnel ends at the mountains, and they are four leagues from the Mission. But you have taken longer walks than this, my friend. Do you remember that night in the mountains?"
"I had forgotten it for one blessed week. Rafael, to what have we brought you? Your poor muscles are soft, where ours are now as hard as a deserter's from an American barque—ay, yi!"
"If they have but the chance to become soft once more after they too are hard!" muttered Rafael, who was panting and lagging. "That priest! that priest!"
"It is true," said Roldan, pausing abruptly. "You will not dare to return home at present—nor we. It is flight once more—to Los Angeles. We will stay there—where he would not dare touch us if he came—until he repents or makes sure that we will have told if we intend to tell. Will you come?"
"Will I? I would go to Mexico if I could. I feel that there is not room in the Californias for those hands and myself."
"I will take care of you," said Roldan, proudly, anxious to rout the memory of his recent humiliation. "But come." And Rafael, too weary and bewildered to resent the authority of his erst-while rival, trudged obediently in the rear.
"It grows colder," said Adan, significantly.