"Does not the Government need the missions?" queries Maxime.
"Ah! my son, Sonoma and San Rafael are kept up to watch the Russians at Fort Ross. Sutter menaces us at New Helvetia. I can see the little cloud of the future, which will break one day in storm."
"Whence comes it, father?" queries the prisoner.
"From the United States," replies the padre. "Our whole political system is paralyzed. The Americans have supported the Texans in battle. That splendid land is dropping away from Mexico. We will lose this glorious land, and our beloved flag will go down forever. The Government sleeps, and the people will be ruined. There are two thousand scattered foreigners here to-day. They gain daily: we weaken hourly. When your people in numbers follow such leaders as your gallant captain over the plains, we will lose this land also."
The padre sighed. His years of hard endeavor are wasted, the fruits are wanting, his labor is vain.
"Why is not your Government more vigorous?" says the stranger.
"My son, our pastoral life builds up no resources of this great land. The young men will not work; they only ride around. Flocks and herds alone will not develop this paradise. The distance from Mexico has broken the force of the laws. In fifty-five years of Spanish rule and twenty-three more of Mexican, we have had twenty-two different rulers. The old families have lost their loyalty, and they now fight each other for supremacy. All is discord and confusion in Alta California."
"And the result?" questions Maxime.
"Either England or the United States will sweep us off forever," mourns the padre. He addresses himself to his beads. Bright sunlight wakes Maxime with the birds. The matin bell rings out. He rises refreshed by the father's hospitality.
During the day Valois measures the generosity of Padre Francisco. A few treasured books enable Maxime to amuse himself. As yet he dares not venture out of the garden.