A lonely, rough, dangerous road, but lovely, too,
with a name like music--El Camino Real. Like music also were the names of
the missions--San Juan Capistrano, San Luis Rey de Francia, San Miguel,
Santa Ynes--their very list is a song.
So there, by-and-by, was our continent, with the locomotive whistling
from Savannah to Boston along its eastern edge, and on the western the
scattered chimes of Spain ringing among the unpeopIed mountains. Thus
grew the two sorts of civilization--not equally. We know what has
happened since. To-day the locomotive is whistling also from The Golden
Gate to San Diego; but still the old mission-road goes through the
mountains, and along it the footsteps of vanished Spain are marked with
roses, and broken cloisters, and the crucifix.
But this was 1855. Only the barkentine brought to Padre Ignacio the signs
from the world that he once had known and loved so dearly. As for the new
world making a rude noise to the northward, he trusted that it might keep
away from Santa Ysabel, and he waited for the vessel that was overdue
with its package containing his single worldly luxury.
As the little, ancient bronze bell continued swinging in the tower, its
plaintive call reached something in the Padre's memory.
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