At ten o’clock the large sala of the Governor’s house was thronged with guests, and the music of the flute, harp, and guitar floated through the open windows:  the musicians sat on the corridor.  How harmonious was the Monterey ball-room of that day!—­the women in their white gowns of every rich material, the men in white trousers, black silk jackets, and low morocco shoes; no color except in the jewels and the rich Southern faces.  The bare ugly sala, from which the uglier furniture had been removed, needed no ornaments with that moving beauty; and even the coffee-colored, high-stomached old people were picturesque.  I wander through those deserted salas sometimes, and, as the tears blister my eyes, imagination and memory people the cold rooms, and I forget that the dashing caballeros and lovely donas who once called Monterey their own and made it a living picture-book are dust beneath the wild oats and thistles of the deserted cemetery on the hill.  The Americans hardly know that such a people once existed.

Chonita entered the sala at eleven o’clock, looking like a snow queen.  Her gold hair, which always glittered like metal, was arranged to simulate a crown; she wore a gown of Spanish lace, and no jewels but the string of black pearls.  I never had seen her look so cold and so regal.

Estenega stepped out upon the corridor.  “Play El Son,” he said, peremptorily.  Then as the vivacious music began he walked over to Chonita and clapped his hands in front of her as authoritatively as he had bidden the musicians.  What he did was of frequent occurrence in the Californian ball-room, but she looked haughtily rebellious.  He continued to strike his hands together, and looked down upon her with an amused smile which brought the angry color to her face.  Her hesitation aroused the eagerness of the other men, and they cried loudly—­

“El Son!  El Son! senorita.”

She could no longer refuse, and, passing Estenega with head erect, she bent it slightly to the caballeros and passed to the middle of the room, the other guests retreating to the wall.  She stood for a moment, swaying her body slightly; then, raising her gown high enough for the lace to sweep the instep of her small arched feet, she tapped the floor in exact time to the music for a few moments, then glided dreamily along the sala, her willowy body falling in lovely lines, unfolding every detail of El Son, unheeding the low ripple of approval.  Then, dropping her gown, she spun the length of the room like a white cloud caught in a cyclone; her garments whirred, her heels clicked, her motion grew faster and swifter, until the spectators panted for breath.  Then, unmindful of the lively melody, she drifted slowly down, swaying languidly, her long round arms now lolling in the lace of her gown, now lifted to graceful sweep and curve.  The caballeros shouted their appreciation, flinging gold and silver at her feet; never had El Son been given with such variations before.  Never