For those who may not have seen episode 1x10 or need a refresher, this is when Garcia wakes up and finds a flag with the letter "Z" raised on the cuartel's pole. Monastario gets mad and arrests two peasants for laughing at the situation, and then orders them to repair the stable roof with thirty buckets of pitch by the next morning, a task seemingly impossible since the puddle is so far out of town, else he puts them in prison.

While Garcia and Monastario are sent out on a wild goose chase by Zorro, the latter returns to the cuartel and has a soldier bring all the required mud inside the Comandante's coach. He then goes back to Monastario and his men and has them chase him for a moment, until they stumble upon the mud pit and fall into it. Of course, they come back to the pueblo all dirty, and Diego is there to greet them and congratulate the Comandante for hiring such efficient workers, and for the amazing group effort put up for the repairs.

The sun had just risen over the majestic horizon, and the cool breeze of the night still clung around in vain attempts to stay alive in the Californian desert. Imelda stopped for a moment, clutching at her shawl, and took a deep breath to control the growing agitation of her thoughts. Jacques was dead, but part of him remained very much alive in this world. A woman could feel these hidden things, mute secrets waiting to be discovered, shadows cast by bright pretenses into which hid the smaller truths of life. She yearned to scream it all, to tell every one around her that she did not care about their puny lives, their useless, vain attempts at thriving in a crumbling society where money and weapons ruled.

True power did not simply come to those who had gold. It was owned by those who commanded the intangible human spirit, the one true drive of any human being. The Church had demonstrated how its grasp was strong in California, and how far it could reach. Just like this Zorro. With his actions he had breathed hope in the minds of many. Imelda could do, would do the same. She sensed her wait was coming close to an end.

The woman's eyes searched the ground with an uncanny precision, acquired through years of practice. She walked carefully on the unstable pebbles, trying to leave the land and its scarce life undisturbed.

Among the elongated shadows created by the early morning sun, the signs suddenly appeared, as she had left them the last time she had been in this remote area, years ago. Imelda's breath accelerated with anticipation. She bent her knees and looked inside a minuscule cranny, and sure enough, the red flower was there, bathing in the first rays of light. Carefully pinching the rare blossom into her fingers, she plucked it out, making sure to leave the perennial well rooted. The small treasure was then safely put away in a glass vial.

Imelda sighed. Patience indeed had its rewards.

The small crowd had already left the graveyard some time ago, after Father Lousteau's short speech. Only Gaspar had faithfully remained behind. Antoine found the stubbornness of his father's lifelong attendant upsetting. He had a hard time believing one could possibly work for so many years with such an arrogant character, without one word of complaint. Nonetheless, he had secretly envied the old man's patience, and the relationship he had had with the one person he had seemingly never been able to please.

They both stood in silence in front of the dark casket, as the large clouds of the grayish day were blown away by the strong winds coming from the sea. An hour passed in this fashion, both men lost in their inner turmoil and groping for a meaning to this juncture in their lives, until the sky finally cleared up and the sun shone upon their pale faces.

"'Tis a sign, young master," the old man muttered. "It is gone, yes, I believe so."

Antoine frowned. "Yes, he is gone."

"Ah oui, the Docteur is gone, but it is also gone, I know it is."

"What are you talking about, Gaspar?" Antoine was worried the death of Jacques Garat might have affected his servant more than he had thought.

"You must not go to California, young master," he said, grabbing Antoine's hands in sudden concern.

"What? How—"

"I tell you, stay here, safe," he insisted more strongly.

"Look," said Antoine, pulling his hands out and reaching for something in his vest. "Father surely told you about his desire for me to return to California, and I understand this is not a trip you would be able to make one last time in your life. Here, take this," he said, handing the old man a pouch. "There should be enough to allow you to live your last years as you please, and you may stay in my father's—"

"Ah, 'tis thoughtful, but I have no need for it," Gaspar gently shook his head. "My obligations have been fulfilled, the last word has been sent. I can rest in peace."

The old man crossed himself and put his hat on. "Do not think of me any more, young soldier, but yourself. Someone be waiting for you in that other land, 'tis not what you think..."

"Daydreaming, aren't you? What's the lady's name?" Mateo asked in a playful tone, as he pulled the reins to stop the small carriage near a small pond close to the road.

"What? No, there isn't... Why are we stopping?" asked Antoine, visibly confused and unable to hide the fact that he had actually dozed off, again. The regular pace of their traveling had made the soldier fall asleep on more than one occasion since their departure from Monterey. Antoine was wearier than he cared to admit, but his tiredness would surely go away if he could just get one good night's sleep without thinking of his father's death. He hoped seeing his friend Diego would change his mood for the better.

"This is Mission San Luis Obispo," Mateo explained, pointing the small cluster of buildings ahead of them by the road. "I have a small delivery to make. I'll grab something to eat and some refreshments... and frankly," he said while jumping off, "I really need to stretch my legs."

Mateo grabbed a small chest from the back of the carriage, put it on his shoulder, and set out for the mission.

"You can wait for me here, I won't be long. The frailes grow some nice fruit here, I'm sure you'll love them."

"Sure thing," replied Antoine, climbing down as well. Despite his eagerness to get to Los Angeles, this short break was a nice idea after all.

Stretching arms and back while watching the horses drink from the pond, Antoine smiled. Meeting Mateo at the tavern had been one lucky event. The young man happened to be on the end of his business trip in Monterey, and had offered his new friend a ride all the way back to his home in Los Angeles. Mateo had been good company so far, and had made the trip much less tedious than it would have been on horseback. Sometimes, life had a way of being generous in its own way, even though it could be cruel in others.

Antoine distractedly pulled his pocket watch out of his belt, and stared at it some more, letting the sun's rays reflect on its scratched metallic cover. The object fascinated him but he had never really understood why. It had been his mother's wedding present to her husband long ago, when they married in California. He remembered, as a child, how he liked to stare at the ticking hands, and even more vividly how, shortly after his mother's death, the watch had stopped working, as if her life had been directly linked to the object.

It was peculiar that his father had always refused to get it repaired, for as long as Antoine could recall. Although the doctor had never been superstitious in nature, this had been one of his odd ideas for a keepsake, and one of his other strange wishes that it be kept that way.

Without thinking, Antoine opened the lid, and read out loud the finely engraved inscription inside it: "'A mi amor, D.'," upon which something reflected inside the smooth surface, and a bright flash blinded him for a second. Instinctively, Antoine spun on his heels and reached for his sword, which had unfortunately been left in the carriage nearby.

"Buenos días, Martínez," he greeted, holding back the curse he had been about to utter. Antoine could hardly believe the man had been following him for days over such a trifle matter as the confrontation they had had at the tavern in Monterey.

"We have unfinished business, soldado," the other smiled, his sword already drawn.

Throwing a quick look around, Antoine realized he could not really call for help, being out of ear's range from the mission. Honor also demanded that he should not. Better solve this thing here and now, once and for all.

The soldier purposely let out a heavy sigh and shrugged as he put the watch back in his belt.

"Great timing, amigo. Are you going to run me through on the spot, or shall we play to make this little game worthwhile for at least a moment?"

Martínez laughed heartily. He grabbed the scabbard left in the carriage, and threw it on the ground at his opponent's feet.

"Entertain me, that's all I ask, chico."

Antoine leisurely picked it up and unsheathed his weapon, pointing it down in a lazy fashion. He then saluted in the traditional way.

"En garde, m'sieur."

Martínez lost no time with ethics, and lunged forward like a mad bull to intimidate his adversary. Antoine had expected no less of him, and moved aside at the last moment to let the man stumble further and lose his balance.

"Olé!" he exclaimed with sarcasm.

Anger flashed in Martínez's eyes, but it died away within seconds as he suddenly composed himself and put up his blade for the next round. He would not be fooled again.

Having no idea about his opponent's fencing skills, Antoine chose a defensive stance, letting the tall man gain ground as he pleased. He slowly made his way backward around the carriage, expertly parrying and dodging every single attack thrown at him. Martínez was relentless though, and the tip of his sword slowly transformed into a hundred snakes trying to frantically bite him all at once.

The soldier realized a bit too late that he had probably made the wrong choice by only defending himself without attacking at the beginning of the duel. He tried to lunge forward and get back some confidence in his drive, but his lines were weaker than his assailant's. Martínez had sensed it as well, and allowed a cocky smile to grow slowly but steadily on his face.

Diego had purposely played with Antoine once in this manner, exploiting a tendency the military man had to occasionally take too much time in judging his opponent. "Pass! Coupé! Doublé! Flick! Indirect! Flèche! Press! Remise! Croisé! Froissement! Thrust!" Antoine remembered well every single word Diego had yelled at him on that day. While the soldier had tried to maintain his ground and find an opening to lunge forward and deal the perfect blow, the caballero had merely named and made up every possible attack he could think of. He had not been pompous but had made a point of letting his friend know how much he was predictable and easier to defeat in letting himself be won over for too long.

Antoine, a nonetheless skilled fencer in his own right, had never been angry or lost patience with Diego, but on that day he had been very disappointed at not being as good as his best friend, and for not being more impulsive in style. Now and then, one had to dash forward and tempt the unknown as well, and not just rely on a lucky shot while stalling and losing precious seconds.

"No crowd to get you out of this one, eh, soldado!" Martínez teased, visibly happier by the second with the direction this duel was heading to. Antoine was getting more and more exhausted, and he blamed his lack of sleep for not having a better stamina. Martínez was a ferocious opponent, and seemed to enjoy displaying his great skills with the sword. No wonder he was on the lookout for any kind of challenge.

The tired soul went on dodging and parrying, hoping something would come up soon to tip the balance back in his favor.

The proud Comandante of Los Angeles sat in his leather chair, reading reports about recent bandit attacks that occurred near the pueblo's farms over the last few days. He scratched his finely trimmed beard and closed his eyes, pondering whether or not the Spanish Army should intervene. If local farmers and Indians got scared, or even killed, it meant they could possibly leave their lands and try to settle somewhere else. More lands for the grabbing meant more money for himself in the long term, if he acted rapidly after their departure, and used some far-fetched reasoning from the local laws to take possession of the precious fields. His lancers could always deal with the scums later on.

On the other hand, the people paid taxes to have protection, an annoying obligation if there was one standing in the way to personal wealth. Taxes were great, but it meant something had to seemingly be done to justify their existence, especially if higher ones were to be raised later on. How irritating indeed.

There was also the matter of Zorro, who could take it upon himself to deal with the bandits, and destroy his hope of grabbing those lands from the farmers, while becoming even more popular with the locals. He would look like the hero, in stead of the Comandante. Even more irritating.

Enrique Sanchez Monastario let out an infuriated growl and violently threw the documents on his desk. A mere thought about the fox was enough to destroy his good mood, and thanks to him any scheme he could think of seemed to become a dead end the minute it was born.

To make things even worse, there was Diego de la Vega, the snobbish dandy who had nothing better to do than nose around in his business, and make appearances when he was less than welcome. Just yesterday, his unsought remarks about the rooftop repairs, and his arrogant smile when he saw him covered with mud after chasing Zorro without result, haunted the Comandante's angry thoughts.

Adding those facts to the insane risks Zorro took to protect Don Alejandro when the latter was found leading a rebellion with the caballeros, and Diego's strange and unexplained absence from his father's trial... The name of de la Vega had to be linked to Zorro in some fashion, it was just too perfect a scenario to discard. There ought to be some way to make Zorro or Diego commit a mistake and be done with this masquerade, once and for all.

"Garcia!" yelled the Comandante to vent some of his frustration. If anything, the fat, clumsy sergeant was useful is his own way. It took a few seconds, but sure enough the heavy steps were heard, and the door was promptly opened.

"Capitán!" saluted Garcia with embarrassment, unable to conceal the fact that he was wearing only one boot and an unbuttoned uniform.

Monastario rolled his eyes and sighed.

"Sergeant, I want you to assemble a small group of men and search the local farms for any trace of those bandits who attacked our lands. Interrogate the farmers and let it be known that we are going to deal with this problem with our best means... 'Best means' being an euphemism for this sad lot of men under my command!"

"Sí, Capitán! On my way!" the sergeant nodded, disappearing as quickly as he had come so that the Comandante would have no time to comment on his rather sloppy attire.

Monastario sighed again and shook his head, dismissing the utter dismay he always felt when he looked at his soldiers. He sat back in his chair and picked the next document on the pile.

"Ah, yes," he muttered with a frown, his thoughts switching to a new subject. Corporal Garat was due to report at the cuartel, coming straight from Spain off La Princesa, which had docked a few days ago in Monterey. Monastario was very curious about the reasons this man had picked such a distant assignment, especially after looking at his impressive qualifications. He had the honors of being among the first men to join the newly founded Academia de Ingenieros in Madrid, and he finished in the top ten of his class with distinctions in military history, strategy, and cavalry. Why would someone with this background decide to run away from it all, when glory and honor were to be gained in Europe thanks to all those wars?

Monastario made a mental note to find answers to his questions the moment the young man would report in. He could prove to be a useful fellow in his hunt for Zorro, and add some skills to the rather disappointing pool of applicants around the Los Angeles area.

A sudden knock on the door made the Comandante jump abruptly.

"What?" he screamed unceremoniously.

The door opened to reveal Sergeant Garcia, who had not yet found the time to dress up properly.

"Sorry, Capitán, a lady is here to see you," he mumbled nervously, looking over his shoulder.

"I don't—"

The Comandante did not find the words to finish his sentence. A woman pushed the sergeant aside and entered the office without proper invitations. She headed straight for the desk and irreverently sat on its corner, the large folds of her elegant red dress pushing the papers aside. She unfolded a fan and locked her gaze with Monastario's, who could not help but gape open mouthed.

"Sergeant!"

"Yes, Capitán?"

"What is this?!" Monastario pointed in anger at the woman, who had a mischievous sparkle to her eyes.

"It's a woman, mi Capitán," the sergeant replied as a matter of fact.

"I know it's a woman, baboso!"

"Oh, my dear Sergeant, would you please leave us for a moment?" the woman interrupted with a smile. "We need to discuss some private things, he and I."

"What!" Monastario was fuming, but could not help staring at the daring creature sitting on his desk.

"Capitán?" inquired Garcia, unsure of what to do.

"Stand outside and close the door, Sergeant," he finally ordered with a tightly controlled voice.

The woman looked delighted and giggled her appreciation, and she waved at Garcia with her fan in a playful manner as he walked out of the office.

Monastario grunted and pulled on his uniform, annoyed and embarrassed at not being able to control the situation.

"Comandante, will you forgive me? I really needed to talk to you about—"

"Who are you!" he asked bluntly.

"Oh," the woman blinked and laughed. She folded her fan with an expert twist of her wrist. "Are you mad at me? I did barge into your office, Comandante."

"Who-are-you!" he repeated, feeling the hot pressure of impatience rising in his temples.

"My, anger does add color to your handsome features. I hope this puts you into a favorable disposition to hear me out."

Monastario was about to yell for Sergeant Garcia, but the woman delicately put her fan on his lips to prevent him from doing so. Her voice became a soothing whisper.

"I, Imelda Escudero Galván, need your help to find a treasure, dear Comandante."

Thanks for the reviews and for reading chapter two! Hope you are still enjoying it :)