* * * *
Daylight filtering through thick, fast-moving clouds dispelled little of the old mission’s mysterious atmosphere. The damp morning virtually cried out for an Alba, that sweet, haunting Spanish paean to the Virgin raised by chanting voices of padres and Indian neophytes. But the hulking church remained silent, its adobe exterior slightly out of true, its walls sloping inward as they rose. The only adornments were a simple cross at its apex and a rude cinquefoil above the flat, segmented arch of the entryway. A fresh, earth-brown wash covered the building, effectively concealing any work the architectural renovators might have performed, at least on the outside. The doors, less crudely carved than I’d imagined last night, portrayed events in the life of the Saint. The world was tota
