MONDAY, NOV. 20. For a moment this morning I regretted having parted with my pistols, and thrown myself on the non-resistant principle. I was alone, and on my way to San José, when two horsemen suddenly broke from the covert of the woods on my left, and swept down upon the line of my path. They were well mounted, and had the dare-devil air of the brigand. It was near this spot, too, that a young friend of mine had been recently murdered. To attempt flight on my Indian pony from the lightning hoof of my pursuers, would have given to consternation itself a hue of the ludicrous. I determined to die decently, if die I must. My supposed assailants dashed close to my side, and then, without uttering a word, spurred back to the forest, from which they had debouched. They were foreigners, disguised as Californians; for a native always salutes you, and would, were his hand on the trigger of his pistol. They went as they came, and the secret of their impetuous visit is in their own keeping. I was quite willing to part with their company, and ascribe their intrusion to a violent curiosity, or any other motive untouched by crime, so that they would let me pass in peace to the Pueblo of San José. TUESDAY, NOV. 21. Arriving at the Pueblo, I found my companions had hired four horses, accustomed to the harness, attached them to the wagon, which we had left here, on our way to the mines, and were ready to start for Monterey. I threw my saddle, bridle, and blanket into the wagon, and parted with my Indian pony: he had done me good service, and got me out of a bad fix in the mines; he had pounded me some, it is true; but that was no fault of his; nature never intended him to tread on flowers without bending their stems. May his new owner treat him kindly; and when age has withered his strength, not turn him out on a public common to die! Had we as little mercy shown us as we extend to the noblest animal committed to our care, we should never get to heaven.