He rejoins the missionary on the rose-shaded porch. In friendly
commune he answers every eager query of the padre. The priest finds
Maxime familiar with Paris. It is manna in the wilderness to this
lonely man of God to speak of the beloved scenes of his youth.
After the Angelus, Maxime rests in the swinging hammock. The priest
confers with the Commandante. His face is hopeful on returning.
"My poor boy," he says, "I gained one favor. Don Miguel allows me
to keep you here. He loves not the American. Promise me, my son,
on the blessed crucifix, that you will not escape. You must not
aid the American troops in any way; on this hangs your life."
These words show that under the priest's frock beats yet the gallant
heart of the French gentleman. Maxima solemnly promises. The good
father sits under the vines, a happy man.
Day by day the new friends stroll by the lake. Seated where below
them the valley shines in all its bravery of spring, surrounded with
the sighing pines, Padre Francisco tells of the resentment of the
Californians toward all Americans. They are all "Gringos," "thieving
Yankees."
"Be careful, my son, even here. Our wild vaqueros have waylaid
and tortured to death some foreigners.
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