Facing his fate, Maxime decides, while crossing the plaza, to conceal nothing. He can honorably tell his story. Foreigners have been gathering in California for years. The Commandante can easily test his disclosures, so lying would be useless. He believes either a British or American fleet will soon occupy California. The signs of the times have been unmistakable since the last return of the foreigners. Will he live to see the day? "Quien sabe?" Maxime sees a stern man of fifty seated in his official presence room. Commandante Miguel Peralta is clad in his undress cavalry uniform. The sergeant captor is in attendance, while at the door an armed sentinel hovers. This is the wolf's den. Maxime is wary and serious. "You are a Yankee, young man," begins the soldier. Maxime Valois' Creole blood stirs in his veins. "I am an American, Senor Commandante, from New Orleans. No Yankee!" he hotly answers, forgetting prudence. Peralta opens his eyes in vague wonder. No Yankee? He questions the rash prisoner. Valois tells the facts of Fremont's situation, but he firmly says he knows nothing of his future plans. "Why so?" demands Peralta. "Are you a common soldier?" Maxime explains his position as a volunteer. A pressing inquest follows. Maxime's frankness touches the Commandante favorably. "I will see you in a day or so. I shall hold you as a prisoner till I know if your chief means war. I may want you as an interpreter if I take the field." "Sergeant," he commands. The captor salutes his chief. "Has this young man told me the truth?" "As far as I know, Senior Don Miguel," is the reply. "See that he has all he wants. Keep him watched. If he behaves himself, let him move around. He is not to talk to any one. If he tries to escape, shoot him. If he wants to see me, let me know." The Commandante lights a Mexican cigar, and signs to the sergeant to remove his prisoner. Maxime sees a score of soldiers wandering around the sunny plaza, where a dozen fleet horses stand saddled. He feels escape is hopeless. As he moves to the door, the chapel bell rings out again, and with a sudden inspiration he halts. "Senior Commandante, can I see the priest?" he asks. "What for?" sharply demands the officer. "I am a Catholic, and would like to talk to him." Don Miguel Peralta gazes in wonder. "A Gringo and a Catholic! I will tell him to see you." Valois is reconducted to his abode. He leaves a puzzled Commandante, who cannot believe that any despised "Gringo" can be of the true faith. He has only seen the down-east hide traders, who are regarded as heathen by the orthodox Dons of the Pacific. Don Miguel knows not that the mariners from Salem and the whalers of New England hold different religious views from the impassioned Creoles of the Crescent City. The prisoner's eye catches the black robe of the priest fluttering among the rose walks of the garden. Walking with him is a lady, while a pretty girl of seven or eight years plays in the shady bowers.