Valois, at Lagunitas, unfolds to the sorrowing padre his departure for the war. Safe in the bosom of the priest, this secret is a heavy load. Valois gains his consent to remain in charge of Lagunitas. The little girl begins to feebly walk. Her infant gaze cannot measure her possessions.
Lovely Dolores Valois listens meekly to her husband's plans. Devoted to Maxime, his will is her only law. The beautiful dark eyes are tinged with a deeper lustre.
Busied with his affairs, Maxime thinks of the future as he handles his papers. Fran‡ois Ribaut is the depositary of his wishes. Dolores is as incapable as her child in business. Will God protect these two innocents?
Valois wonders if he will return in defeat like Don Miguel. Poor old Don! around his tomb the roses creep,—his gentle Juanita by his side.
He hopes the armies of the West will carry the banner, now flying from Gulf to border, into the North. There the legendary friends of the South will hail it.
Alas! pent up in California, Maxime hears not the murmurs of the Northern pines, breathing notes of war and defiance. The predictions of the leaders of the conspiracy are fallacious. Aid and comfort fail them abroad. North of Mason and Dixon's line the sympathizers are frightened.
In his heart he only feels the tumult of the call to the field. It is his pride of race. Tired, weary of the crosses of fortune, he waits only to see the enemy's fires glittering from hill and cliff.
With all his successes, the West has never been his home. Looking out on his far-sweeping alamedas, his thoughts turn fondly back to his native land. He is "going home to Dixie."