At San Fernando he gave a bit of information to a fray; at Reina de Los Angeles he had speech with a corporal in command of the squad at the guardhouse; he sent a message to San Gabriel; and he sent a fresh steed flying over the miles that stretched to San Juan Capistrano as if the life of a nation depended upon his ride. Miles behind him rode Ensign Sanchez and a squad not expected to maintain the fierce pace endured by the sergeant, and in their wake they left suspicion and fear. At San Juan Capistrano, Cassara exchanged horses while he spoke in quick, low syllables to the padre. And then he was away toward the south again, eating up the miles, taking chances in the darkness on the rough highway through the hills, glad when the dawn came so that he could make better speed. San Luis Rey de Francia loomed ahead of him in the early morning hours; the bells at the mission were ringing; neophytes and frailes were pouring into the church. Indian children flew from before his horse as the sergeant dashed up to the door of the padres’ quarters, and called aloud for some man to come. Again he changed horses, once more he whispered a few crisp sentences that made the faces of the frailes grow white, and then he was away to the south again in a cloud of dust--and behind at San Luis Rey de Francia he left an old Indian before his hut on the roadside, who wrinkled his eyes in concentrated thought until he scarcely could see, and then called a young man and gave a message to be carried back into the hills. Exhausted, hungry, thirsty, covered with dust and perspiration, his clothing sticking to him, the sergeant thought only of reaching his destination. At the top of every hill he looked ahead, always hoping to see San Diego de Alcalá in the distance. And when he did see it he gave his horse the spurs and urged the beast to its greatest speed, and bent low over the animal’s neck like a racing Indian. He flew up the highway like the wind, knowing that his approach would be noticed by the sentry at the gate of the presidio, and hoping that the _comandante_ would be at his post and not visiting at a rancho or talking with a padre at the mission six miles away. At the bottom of the knoll his horse fell, and Cassara went over the animal’s head to the ground, but was upon his feet almost as soon as he struck, and running toward the gate. The sentry cried a challenge, but Cassara did not answer. Could not the fool see his uniform, he wondered? And then he would have fallen himself had not the man at the gate thrown out an arm and caught him. “Your lieutenant!” he gasped.