He swore softly as he crossed the plaza to the veranda of Juan Alvara. The old man, rolling his first cigarro of the day, was sitting there on the bench in the early sunlight. "Don Juan," he said, holding out his hand, "I ride to catch up with the officers and go with them into the Indian country, and I may not see San Juan again for a long time. Your home has always been a pleasant place, and I thank you for many courtesies." The old man shook his hand gravely. "Adios! You come back to San Juan--no?" "Perhaps not," said Bryton. "If there is anything I can do for you in Los Angeles--" "Thanks, senor; there is nothing. My daughters go there in a week with the wedding party. For whom think you old Tomas tolls the bell?" When informed, he stared vaguely at the Americano. Alvara was growing old. Teresa had warned them all that no one should tell him until his breakfast was over and he had had his smoke. "Luisa! the Dona Luisa! Dead, you say?--before the wedding-day? No, senor, pardon, but you have not understood. I know Luisa Arteaga when she is still a little girl--and always. She not dying before she have marry the boy like she want." Still, his hand trembled as he reached for his cane. Across the plaza Indians and Mexicans were moving toward the Mission. It was early for San Juan to be astir in the street. Old Matia, who had been nurse to Miguel and Rafael, went past, not seeing the two men for the tears in her eyes. Yes--after all, there was trouble--but Dona Luisa! In his perturbation he turned, and again held out his hand. "Adios, senor," he repeated; "but you coming back for sure. To San Juan all people coming back some time. You go with the horses across the deserts?" "Yes, I am going across the deserts. Adios!" [Music: _El Corazon_.] Yo te he de amar, te he de amar hasta muerte, Y si pudiera-- Yo te a maria despues. CHAPTER VII He had crossed the ranges twice and returned, but the City of the Angels had lost its old witchery. The rose-tinted dawns, and the amethystine dusks were beautiful as ever, but to banish the memories he had once dreamed over there, he galloped alone to the harbor called "The Hell of California," and lay all one day on the beach, and stared moodily at the waves whipping the yellow sands of San Pedro. To the south there, far beyond the prosaic stretch of grazing-lands bordered by the sea, beyond all the tame levels where the water was green or yellow in the shallows, beyond all the jutting points, veiled in the miles of mists, he could follow in his mind each curve, until the one valley of beauty would gleam like a green jewel seen from the cliffs of San Juan.