Presently the caballero arose and picked up his guitar, and crept up the slope until he reached the adobe wall. He followed it to the end of the plaza; made his way slowly through the darkness to the guest house. There he stationed himself below an open window and began playing softly. Several minutes he played, knowing a neophyte stood a score of feet away, watching; and then he began to sing a love song of Old Spain, a song of strong men and fair women. Between two verses he heard the voice of Señora Vallejo. “Anita, child, do you hear?” “Yes, Señora Vallejo,” the girl replied, clearly. “The coyotes are growing bold again. One is howling now beneath my window.” CHAPTER V TWO GOOD SAMARITANS It is a matter of history--that big rain of a certain year. The torrents poured from the sky at an unexpected time until the country was drenched and tiny streams swollen, and watercourses that had been dry were turned into turbulent yellow floods that carried on the surface brush and grass and logs from the hills, menacing many a rancho, undermining huts and adobe houses, ruining wells. Returning from his ineffectual serenade, the caballero observed that the stars were disappearing, but believed it was because of a fog that came from the sea. As he reached the place where he had picketed his horse and built his fire, a drop of water splashed on his cheek. At the most, he anticipated nothing worse than half an hour’s shower, and so he merely built up his fire and put some dry moss and grass to one side under his cloak, and prepared to sleep on the ground. He slept soundly after his long journey and the unexpected events of the past two days. He awoke to find the fire out and a chill in his body, to find that water was flowing down the slope about him, and the ground but a sea of mud, with the torrent continuing to pour from the sky. It was not more than midnight and the storm gave no indication of ceasing. The caballero stood up and threw aside his sodden cloak, picked up guitar and sword and pistol, and left the camp to hurry in the direction of the mission orchard. It was so dark he could see nothing, and he could not locate a path. Roots half washed from the ground tripped him, water flowed down the back of his neck. On and on he stumbled, until he ran against the orchard wall. He managed to get over it, carrying his property, and searched for a place where the trees would shield him partially from the storm. He came to a giant palm and crept close to the bole where the wind drove the rain against him, but where it was not quite so bad as in the open. And there the caballero stood, hour after hour, gradually getting colder and more miserable, hugging his guitar under one arm and his sword under the other.