of others, generally less worthy, in the rebellion against the authority of Spain, yet the face of things had not changed, the new owners being no more progressive than the old.
It was not yet midnight when Henderson and Felipe rode into the town. Contrary to Felipe's prediction, there was no waking over the news. The houses were dark and silent, even the house of Felipe's friend.
"This is a strange business," said Felipe, his voice made low as if he stood among sleepers.
They had come to a halt a little distance from his friend's house, a white-plastered adobe of considerable size, which stood in a grove of orange and fig trees. The wasted moon was then rising redly above the valley of San Gabriel; its faint light discovered the dark masses of the orange trees, the white arms of the fig trees. It also was strong enough to make their present situation one of insecurity from the eyes of any person who might pass, or come to the window of the neighboring house a little way along the thinly-built street.
"If you will take the horses back among the oak trees," Felipe suggested, pointing to an unfenced common that seemed to stretch away into the wilds, "I will sound on his door and see if he will come."
Henderson withdrew to the shadow of the oaks, where he dismounted, holding the reins of the three horses to be ready for any emergency. If he distrusted Felipe a little, surely he was not to be blamed, having had his lesson in treachery and
