He was vaguely troubled by the embryonic thoughts
that in their maturity come to men who have lived and suffered, when
they are alone in a forest at night, far from other men.
Again they plunged into the forest. No snow penetrated the treetops,
knit together by centuries and storms. All was black again, and the deep
ocean of leaf and branch roared faintly overhead.
Roldan felt oppressed and thoughtful. He looked into the future and saw
himself a man. He would be governor of the Californias, and make himself
a good and great man, wiser than the idle caballeros who patronised him;
he would teach them the folly of their useless lives.
"Look," said Anastacio, abruptly. "We are here. It is a pueblo of my
fathers, and will serve us now."
He pointed with his riding switch through the trees to a vague
whiteness, and in a moment they emerged into another open. It was a
clearing some three hundred feet square, crowded with dilapidated
hovels, white under a light fall of snow. It was in the heart of the
Sierras, on the flat of a peak; and high on every side reared other
peaks, glittering with snow, black with redwoods. The snow clouds had
passed.
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