Cattle were browsing on the hills. A stream tangled in
willows cut a zig-zag course across the valley.
The boys rode quickly down the hillside. As the padres heard the
approaching hoof-beats they paused in their walk, and shading their eyes
with their hands gazed earnestly at the travellers.
"Friends! Friends!" cried Roldan gaily, as the tired steeds trotted up
to the corridor. The boys dismounted and made a deep reverence. One of
the priests, a man with a grave stern face came forward.
"Who are you, my children?" he asked. "You are the sons of aristocrats,
and yet you are torn and unkempt, and one of you has ridden many leagues
without a saddle. Are you runaways? The shelter of the Mission is for
all, but we do not countenance insubordination."
Roldan introduced himself and his friend. "We are runaways, my father,"
he added, "but from the government; and we have arranged that our
parents shall not be anxious. We do not wish to be drafted."
The priest's brow relaxed. The padres had little respect for a system
that owed its existence mainly to the vanity of governors and generals,
and the present governor, Micheltorena, had by no means won the approval
of the Church.
Pages:
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61