It
was a white city; there were no red tiles to break those pure and lovely
lines, to blotch that radiant whiteness; even the red sun withheld its
angry shafts.
Roldan gazed, his lips parting, his breath coming quickly. If his
imagination had ever attempted to picture heaven, its wildest flight
would have resembled but fallen short of that living beauty before him.
It was mystifying, exalting. It was worth the dangers and discomforts of
the past month multiplied by twelve, just to have one moment's glimpse
of such perfection. And it was Los Angeles! A city of the Californias,
built by Indian hands! No wonder his family had been careful to leave
its wonders out of the table talk; had he known, he would have been at
its feet long since.
"It isn't the wine?" asked Adan, feebly.
"No. There must have been a fog before; Los Angeles is near the sea."
"Shall we start?"
"Yes, but slowly. The poor mustangs! But it will not be long now. We
cannot be more than two leagues from there. See, it grows plainer every
moment; the fog must have been very heavy."
They cantered on slowly, the mustangs responding automatically to the
light prick of the spur.
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