The fragrant forest throws
out gallant flanking wings of embattled trees. It is the residence
of the lord of ten leagues square. This is the great Peralta Rancho.
In wintering in the San Joaquin, Maxime has often heard of the
fabulous wealth and power of this inland chieftain. Don Miguel
Peralta is Commandante of the San Joaquin. By a fortunate marriage
he is related to Jose Castro, the warlike Commandante general of
Pio Pico--a man of mark now. Thousands of cattle and horses, with
great armies of sheep, are herded by his semi-military vaqueros.
The young explorer easily divines now the reason of his abduction.
The party dismounts. While the sergeant seeks the major-domo, Valois'
wondering eye gazes on the beauties of lake and forest. Field and
garden, bower and rose-laden trellises lie before him. The rich
autumn sun will ripen here deep-dyed clusters of the sweet mission
grapes. It is a lordly heritage, and yet his prison. Broad porches
surround the plaza. There swinging hammocks, saddled steeds, and
waiting retainers indicate the headquarters of the Californian Don.
Maxime looks with ill-restrained hatred at his fierce guards. They
squat on the steps and eye him viciously. He is under the muzzle
of his own pistol.
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