A few regiments of Texan horse can hold this great gold-field for the South. Valois deems it impossible for California to be recaptured if once won. He knows that Southern agents are ready to stir up the great tribes of the plains against the Yankees. The last great force, the United States Navy, is to be removed. Philip Hardin tells him how the best ships of the navy are being dismantled, or ordered away to foreign stations. Great frigates are laid up in Southern navy-yards. Ordnance supplies and material are pushed toward the Gulf. Appropriations are expended to aid these plans. The leaders of the army, now scattered under Southern commanders, are ready to turn over to the South the whole available national material of war. Never dreaming of aught but success, Valois fears only that he may be assigned to Western duties. This will keep him from the triumphal marches over the North. He may miss the glories of that day when Robert Toombs calls the roll of his blacks at Bunker Hill Monument. In the prime of life and vigor of mind, he is rich. He has now a tiny girl child, gladdening sweet Senora Dolores. His domain blossoms like the rose. Valois has many things to tie him to San Joaquin. His princely possessions alone would satisfy any man. But he would leave all this to ride with the Southern hosts in their great northward march. Dolores sits often lonely now, on the porch of the baronial residence which has grown up around the Don's old adobe mansion. Her patient mother lies under the roses, by the side of Don Miguel. Padre Francisco, wearied of the mental death in life of these lonely hills, has delayed his return to France only by the appeals of Maxime Valois. He wants a friend at Lagunitas if he takes the field. If he should be called East, who would watch over his wife and child? Fran‡ois Ribaut, a true Frenchman at heart, looks forward to some quiet cloister, where he can see once more the twin towers of Notre Dame. The golden dome of the Invalides calls him back. He sadly realizes that his life has been uselessly wasted. The Indians are either cut off, chased away, or victims of fatal diseases. The Mexicans have fallen to low estate. Their numbers are trifling. He has no flock. He is only a lonely shepherd. With the Americans his gentle words avail nothing. The Catholics of the cities have brought a newer Church hierarchy with them. "Home to France," is his longing now.