rock and slope of sward; and here again, gardenlike copse and musical cascade; each nook commanding a view over cypress knoll, bright stream, green down, and blue illimitable sea.
Nestling in a hollow at our feet, half hidden by the forest growths, yet with an out-look over ridge and ocean, lie the broken stones and falling rafters of San Carlos, a Franciscan church, built by Red men, natives of the country, acting under a company of Spanish friars.
These friars, heralds of the first White Conquest of the Slope, brought into this corner of the earth the torch of Gospel light, hoping to convert and save some remnants of a savage and neglected tribe.
Hitching our mustangs to a pine, and bidding our dogs keep watch, we vault the fence of sundried bricks, and feel our feet within the sacred courts; as sacred in this hour of ruin, as when cross and pyx were carried round these walls by holy men, and angelus and vesper swelled from the choir.
The soil is black, the odour aromatic; f