Down by the marshes countless snipe, duck, geese, and curlew tempt the absent sportsman. The traveller easily overtakes his escort. They have been trying all the arts of the vaquero. Past hills where startled buck and doe gaze until they gracefully bound into the covert, the riders pursue the lonely trail. Devoid of talk, they follow the shore, sweeping for six hours over the hills, toward the Mission Dolores. Another hour brings them to the Presidio. This fort is the only safeguard of the State; a battery of ship guns is a mere symbol of power. In the quadrangle two companies of native soldiers and a detachment of artillery constitute the feeble garrison. Don Miguel Peralta canters up to the Commandante's residence. Evening parade is over. Listless sentinels drag over their posts with the true military laziness. Peralta is intent upon affairs both of head and heart. His comrade, the Commandante, sits late with him in sage counsel. A train follows from Monterey, with stores for the settlement. Sundry cargoes of gifts for the fair Juanita, which the one Pacific emporium of Monterey alone could furnish, are moving. Miguel bears an order for a detail of a sergeant and ten men, a nucleus of a force in the San Joaquin. Barges and a shallop are needed to transport supplies up the river. By couriers, invitations are to be sent to all the clans not represented at the Monterey gathering. The priests of the mission must also be visited and prepared for the wedding. Miguel's heart softens. He thinks of his bright-eyed Californian bride waiting in her home, soon to be Seftora Peralta. In twenty days Don Miguel arranges his inland voyage. While his assistants speed abroad, he pays visits of ceremony to the clergy and his lovely bride. The great day of his life arrives. Clad in rich uniform, he crosses to the eastern shore. A breeze of morning moves. The planet of love is on high. It is only the sun tinting the bay with golden gleams. Never a, steamer yet has ploughed these silent waters. Morning's purple folds Tamalpais in a magic mantle. Rolling surges break on the bar outside the Golden Gate. Don Miguel, attended by friends, receives his bride, the Rose of Alameda. Shallops wait. The merry party sails for the western shore. Fluttering flags decorate this little navy of San Francisco. Merry laughter floats from boat to boat. The tinkle of the guitar sounds gaily. Two hours end this first voyage of a new life. At the embarcadero of Yerba Buena the party descends. They are met by a procession of all the notables of the mission and Presidio. Hardy riders and ladies, staid matrons and blooming senoritas, have gathered also from Santa Clara, Napa, and Sonoma. The one government brig is crowded with a merry party from Monterey.