"Then you understand French?" cries the padre joyously. "It is my native tongue," rejoins Valois proudly. "My name before I took orders was Fran‡ois Ribaut," says the overjoyed father. "Hold! I must see Don Miguel. I am a Frenchman myself." He flies over the plaza, his long robe fluttering behind him. His quickened steps prove a friendly interest. Maxima's heart swells within him. The beloved language has unlocked the priestly heart. In five minutes the curate is back. "Come with me, 'mon fils,'" he says. Guided by the priest, Maxime leaves his prison, its unlocked door swinging open. They reach the head of the square. By the chapel is Padre Francisco's house, school-room, and office. A sacristy chamber connects chapel and dwelling. The missionary leads the way to the chancel, and points to the altar rails. "I will leave you," he whispers. There, on his knees, where the wondering Indians gaze in awe of the face on the Most Blessed Virgin, Maxime thanks God for this friend raised up to him in adversity. He rejoins the missionary on the rose-shaded porch. In friendly commune he answers every eager query of the padre. The priest finds Maxime familiar with Paris. It is manna in the wilderness to this lonely man of God to speak of the beloved scenes of his youth. After the Angelus, Maxime rests in the swinging hammock. The priest confers with the Commandante. His face is hopeful on returning. "My poor boy," he says, "I gained one favor. Don Miguel allows me to keep you here. He loves not the American. Promise me, my son, on the blessed crucifix, that you will not escape. You must not aid the American troops in any way; on this hangs your life." These words show that under the priest's frock beats yet the gallant heart of the French gentleman. Maxima solemnly promises. The good father sits under the vines, a happy man. Day by day the new friends stroll by the lake. Seated where below them the valley shines in all its bravery of spring, surrounded with the sighing pines, Padre Francisco tells of the resentment of the Californians toward all Americans. They are all "Gringos," "thieving Yankees." "Be careful, my son, even here. Our wild vaqueros have waylaid and tortured to death some foreigners. The Diggers, Utes, and Hill Indians butcher any wanderer. Keep closely under my protection. Don Miguel adores Donna Juanita, sweet Christian lady! She will lend me aid; you are thus safe. If your people leave the Hawk's Peak without a battle, our cavalry will not take the field; we expect couriers momentarily. Should fighting begin, Don Miguel will lead his troops. He will then take you as guide or interpreter; God alone must guard you." The man of peace crosses himself in sadness. "Meanwhile, I will soften the heart of Don Miguel."