Hard by the chapel, the
old ranchero rests surrounded by the sighing forest. It is singing
the same unvarying song, breathing incense from the altars of nature
over the stout soldier's tomb.
He has fought the fight of his race in vain. When the roses' leaves
drift a second time on the velvet turf, Maxime Valois receives
the hand of Dolores from her mother. The union is blessed by the
invocation of his priestly friend. It is a simple wedding. Bride
and groom are all in all to each other. There are none of the
Valois, and not a Peralta to join in merrymaking.
Padre Francisco and Donna Juanita are happy in the knowledge that the
shy bird of the mountains is mated with the falcon-eyed Creole. He
can defend the lordly heritage of Lagunitas. So, in the rosy summer
time, the foot of the stranger passes as master over the threshold
of the Don's home. The superb domain passes under the dominion
of the American. One by one the old holdings of the Californian
families pass away. The last of the Dons, sleeping in the silence
of the tomb, are spared the bitterness of seeing their quaint
race die out. The foreigner is ruling within their gates. Their
unfortunate, scattered, and doomed children perish in the attrition
of a newer civilization.
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