The caballero choked in sudden rage and his hand went toward the hilt of his sword. But thoughts of the future came to him again, and he took a step backward and swept off his sombrero in a stately bow. “For the time being, it shall be as you say, officer,” he said. “But do not doubt that there will be a reckoning, and when it comes I shall take the matter into my own hands, not hand you over to court-martial for ignoring his excellency’s pass.” He turned his back and started toward the gate. “A moment, caballero,” the lieutenant called. “While we have decided not to hold intercourse with you in a social way, it does not follow that you are entirely ignored. There are alert eyes about you, _señor_. And treason has a merited reward!” “May I ask your meaning?” “Leave a picketed horse long enough, _señor_, and he’ll throw himself with his own rope. I trust my meaning is clear?” “As clear as the sky at present, _señor_,” the caballero replied. “I shall recommend to his excellency, when next I greet him, that he place an officer with brains at San Diego de Alcalá!” He sprang to the saddle and spurred the horse cruelly. Back along the road toward the mission he urged the animal at utmost speed, careless of the treacherous ground and of what a stumble might mean. Once more he reached the slope before the mission, and picketed the horse. He stacked the saddle and bridle together, got his guitar from a corner by the orchard wall and put it with them, and covered all with his cloak. Then he started up the slope, walking swiftly. He had but a remnant of his pride left and did not think it necessary under the circumstances to conserve that. He went around the end of the wall and splashed across the plaza, scarcely looking at the neophytes and frailes. Straight to the church he went, opened the door, and entered. He made his way to the chapel. There was sanctuary; there none could molest him without special order; and here he stubbornly decided to remain. But there was no warmth, no food, no drink. A couple of candles glowed. A padre knelt. Two neophytes were at work patching a hole in the wall. The caballero paced back and forth in the narrow aisle, listening to the beating of the storm outside, wondering whether a fray would speak to him and offer relief. The neophytes went out, and in time the padre followed. The caballero did not speak as he passed, for he felt that the other would not answer. He wondered whether the entire world had turned against him. He contrasted his present condition with the hospitality he had received at Santa Barbara and San Fernando, and in the adobe house of Gonzales at Reina de Los Angeles. He longed for the companionship of the aged Indian at San Luis Rey de Francia, for his poor hut and coarse food and hard bunk. And then his pride returned to him in a surge. He would seek sanctuary in no chapel where his presence was not welcomed by all!