Through a low gateway in the wall
he passed on to the crest of the one straggling street of Todos Santos.
On either side of him were ranged the low one-storied, deep-windowed
adobe fondas and artisans' dwellings, with low-pitched roofs of dull red
pipe-like tiles. Absorbed in his fanciful dreams, he did not at first
notice that those dwellings appeared deserted, and that even the
Posada opposite him, whose courtyard was usually filled with lounging
muleteers, was empty and abandoned. Looking down the street towards
the plaza, he became presently aware of some undefined stirring in the
peaceful hamlet. There was an unusual throng in the square, and afar on
that placid surface of the bay from which the fog had lifted, the two
or three fishing-boats of Todos Santos were vaguely pulling. But the
strange ship was gone.
A feeling of intense relief and satisfaction followed. Father Esteban
pulled out his snuff-box and took a long and complacent pinch. But
his relief was quickly changed to consternation as an armed cavalcade
rapidly wheeled out of the plaza and cantered towards him, with the
unmistakable spectacle of the male passengers of the Excelsior riding
two and two, and guarded by double files of dragoons on each side.
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