Leaving the car at the Presidio entrance, we passed down the shaded driveway and along the winding path that led to the old parade ground.  “This military reservation covers about the same ground as the old Spanish Presidio,” I explained.  “At that time, however, it was a sweep of tawny sand-dunes, for the Spaniards had neither the ability nor the money to beautify the place.  After it came into possession of the Americans, lupins were scattered broadcast as a first means of cultivation and for a time the undulating hills were veiled in blue.  Later, groves of pine and eucalyptus trees together with grass and flowers were planted, until now it may be regarded as one of the parks of San Francisco.  This was the original plaza of the old Spanish Presidio,” I continued, as we emerged onto the quadrangle, “and it was then lined with houses as it is today, only at that time they were crude adobe structures.  Surrounding these was a wall fourteen feet high, made of huge upright and horizontal saplings plastered with mud, and as a further means of protection, a wide ditch was dug on the outside.  Here Luis Argueello was Comandante for twenty-three years.”

Our eyes wandered over the substantial structures with their well-trimmed gardens and rested on a low rambling building opposite, protected from the gaze of the curious by an old palm and guarded by a quaint Spanish cannon.  The building’s simple outlines, even at a distance, bespoke it as of a different generation from its more aggressive neighbors, even though its red-tiled roof had been replaced by sombre brown shingles, and its crumbling walls replastered.  We crossed over the parade ground, and peering within, found that the building had been converted into an officers’ club house.

“Did you see the bronze tablet on the front?” I demanded.

“Yes,” he admitted rather sheepishly, turning to examine the deep window embrasure that showed the width of the walls.

“There’s an atmosphere of romance about the old place—­”

“And well there may be,” I broke in, “for it was here that Rafaela Sal came as a bride, and that Rezanov met Luis Argueello’s beautiful sister, Concepcion, and a love story began which may well take place with that of Miles Standish and Priscilla.”

“Rezanov,” he repeated, searching his memory.  “I recall that there was a romance connected with his visit to San Francisco but the details have escaped me.  Please sit down on this bench and tell me the story just as if I had never heard it before.”

“More than a century ago there dwelt in this old adobe house a beautiful maiden,” I began.  “Her father was Comandante of the Presidio, ’el Santo,’ the people termed him, because of his goodness.  Concepcion, or Concha, as she was affectionately called by her parents, was only fifteen years old when our story begins—­a tall, slender girl with masses of fine black hair and the fair Castilian skin, inherited from her mother.  So lovely was she that many a caballero had already sung at her grating, but she would listen to none of them.  Her lover would come from over the sea, she declared, someone who could tell her about the wide outside world.