Clarence had halted in utter bewilderment.  No one was visible before him, behind him, on either side.  The words, in Spanish, came from the air, the sky, the distant horizon, he knew not which.  Was he still dreaming?  A strange shiver crept over his skin as if the air had grown suddenly chill.  Then another mysterious voice arose, incredulous, half mocking, but equally distinct and clear.

“Caramba!  What is this?  You are wandering, friend Pancho.  You are still smarting from his tongue.  He has the grant confirmed by his brigand government; he has the possession, stolen by a thief like himself; and he has the Corregidors with him.  For is he not one of them himself, this Judge Peyton?”

Peyton!  Clarence felt the blood rush back to his face in astonishment and indignation.  His heels mechanically pressed his horse’s flanks, and the animal sprang forward.

“Guarda!  Mira!” said the voice again in a quicker, lower tone.  But this time it was evidently in the field beside him, and the heads and shoulders of two horsemen emerged at the same moment from the tall ranks of wild oats.  The mystery was solved.  The strangers had been making their way along a lower level of the terraced plain, hidden by the grain, not twenty yards away, and parallel with the road they were now ascending to join.  Their figures were alike formless in long striped serapes, and their features undistinguishable under stiff black sombreros.

“Buenas noches, senor,” said the second voice, in formal and cautious deliberation.

A sudden inspiration made Clarence respond in English, as if he had not comprehended the stranger’s words, “Eh?”

“Gooda-nighta,” repeated the stranger.

“Oh, good-night,” returned Clarence.  They passed him.  Their spurs tinkled twice or thrice, their mustangs sprang forward, and the next moment the loose folds of their serapes were fluttering at their sides like wings in their flight.

CHAPTER IV.

After the chill of a dewless night the morning sun was apt to look ardently upon the Robles Rancho, if so strong an expression could describe the dry, oven-like heat of a Californian coast-range valley.  Before ten o’clock the adobe wall of the patio was warm enough to permit lingering vacqueros and idle peons to lean against it, and the exposed annexe was filled with sharp, resinous odors from the oozing sap of unseasoned “redwood” boards, warped and drying in the hot sunshine.  Even at that early hour the climbing Castilian roses were drooping against the wooden columns of the new veranda, scarcely older than themselves, and mingling an already faded spice with the aroma of baking wood and the more material fragrance of steaming coffee, that seemed dominant everywhere.