to take that chap there as a sign post," and he turned his horse directly
toward the heron.

Sure enough, a track led them through the sand, and by a zigzag route to
the top of the knoll that had barred their way along the shore. They came
to an edge. Before them lay an arm of the sea, sweeping and eddying with a
strong incoming tide. Over the way stood a great mountain, like a sentinel.
Far to their right the arm widened. There was a glimpse of sparkling blue,
and of the pearl of far-off hills, and the haze of a distant dim peak.

"It's the Golden Gate!" cried Keith in sudden enlightenment.

He told her that the mountain over the way must be Tamalpais; that the
pearl-gray, far-off hills must be Contra Costa; that the distant dim peak
was undoubtedly Mount Diabolo. She repeated the syllables after him softly,
charmed by their music.

Simultaneously they discovered that they were hungry. The wind whipped in
from the sea. An outpost tent or so marked the distant invisible city over
the hills. Keith turned his horse's head toward them. They drove back
across what are now the Presidio hills.

But in a hollow they came upon another ranch house, like the first--low,
white, red roofed, covered with vines. Keith insisted on driving to it. A
number of saddled horses dozed before the door, a half-dozen dogs sprawled
in the dust, fowls picked their way between the horses' legs or over the
dogs' recumbent forms. At the sound of wheels several people came from the
shadow of the porch into the open. They proved to be Spanish Californians
dressed in the flat sombreros, the short velvet jackets, the slashed
trousers, and soft leather _zapatos_. The men, handsome, lithe, indolent,