from stone to stone.
A chapel stands near the gate, and a door within the chancel opens into a sacristy.
Some mural paintings still remain on wall and vault; such painted scrolls and pious messages as you read in village churches of Castille.
Angeles Y Santos la Bemos Aj Corozon di Jasvs
A door, now rotting into dust, conceals the sacristy.
Closed by a wooden peg, this door suggests that some poor soul still cares for the old place.
Yes, some one cares.
A Rumsen chief, old Capitan Carlos, comes in once a year, to smooth the falling stones and keep his memory of the church alive.
On pushing the door ajar, a ray of light, a rush of air, go with us into the sacristy.
The floor is mud. A broken table leans against the wall.
Above this table hang some poor oil pictures, in the Spanish school of sacred art; a faded Sefora of Carmelo, and by way of balance, a yet more faded Jesu Christo.
Covered by dust and grime lie votive offerings of the village sort; among the heaps,
exico, where he has learned to serve another altar, and ceased to think of his mission on Carmelo Bay.
Holding to his new creed with all a convert's ardour, Capitan Carlos hovers round his ancient home, knowing no second fane, and clinging to the saint whose name he bears.
To him, and to such rags and tatters of his tribe as yeents, laid out in whisky, you may hear the story of his life, and in that tale the romance of his tribe.
A youth when the first Spaniards came to Monterey, Capitan Carlos saw Fray Junipero Serra land his company of friars, Don Jose Rivera land his regiment of troops.
The Spaniards had already built a Mission house at San Diegoim when he liked.
An Indian female had no rights.
Poor souls, they knew no better in those pagan days, before San Carlos sent his message to their tribe!
Capitan Carlos saw a band of friars come over the ridge from Monterey, and plant a cross in ground belonging to his tribe.
A cross appeared to be the White man's totem; f
ork and daring deed.
Bad roads down here ? we ask, on gathering up the reins.
Bad roads! Ah, never mind, Sefior.
Go on --you'll find them worse-good bye!
Tearing through scrub and grass, we rattle down the slope in search of a ford; now startling a hawk-owl from his perch, anon drawing up to bang at snipe or teal.
We reach the stream that ought to be the Kishon, here a broad and shallow river, rippling over beds of sand, and whispering to an angler of abundant trout.
When Capitan Carlos was a buck of sixty, Rio Carmelo fed the mission and the tribe; but now no line is dropped into the flood for trout, no snare is drawn across the ford for duck.
All nature at Carmelo runs to waste.
Crossing the ford and climbing up the slopes towards Monte Carmelo, we crash our way through trough and tangle, swarm up ridge and rock, each moment getting deeper in the wood and higher on the range, until we catch, some height above our heads, an opening in the mountain side.