Now the highway followed a dry watercourse, and now it ran along the rim of a hill. On the crests he stopped the mule and looked ahead, but never behind. It was interruption he feared now, not pursuit. He passed a flock of sheep being driven toward the north, and the neophytes herding them looked at him in astonishment when he refused to answer their respectful salutations. Once more he stopped at a creek to bathe his eyes and drink, allowing his beast to have but a small amount of water and to nibble a few minutes at the green growth along the bank.
Noon came; he reached the crest of a hill to see the mission of San Fernando glistening white in the distance. Urging the mule to greater speed, he passed a rancho frequently, but did not stop for refreshment. The mule was trotting with hanging head, negotiating the rough highway with difficulty.
As he neared the mission the beast staggered and fell, and a neophyte came running.
“The mule is yours if you can save him,” the caballero said. “Remove saddle and bridle and bring them after me. Where is the padre?”
“In the storehouse, señor.”
The caballero hurried away. The padre had witnessed his arrival and was walking slowly toward him. They met beside the wall.
“I have immediate need of a good horse, padre,” the caballero said. “I have gold to pay for the beast.”
“I can get you one in a short time, señor. You are hurrying toward the south?”
“On an urgent matter, padre.”
“These are turbulent times, I am told. If the sainted Serra were still among the living, to guide us——”