Estenega looked at her with the first stab of doubt he had felt.  “She is Spanish in her marrow,” he thought,—­“the steadfast unreasoning child of traditions.  I could not well be at greater disadvantage.  But she is magnificent.”

“Another thing which was unnecessary,” she added, “was to defend yourself to me or to tell me how you felt toward my brother, and why.  We are enemies by tradition and instinct.  We shall rarely meet, and shall probably never talk together again.”

“We shall talk together more times than you will care to count.  I have much to say to you, and you shall listen.  But we will discuss the matter no further at present.  Shall we gallop?”

He spurred his horse, and once more they fled through the pine woods.  Before long they entered the valley of Carmelo.  The mountains were massive and gloomy, the little bay was blue and quiet, the surf of the ocean roared about Point Lobos, Carmelo River crawled beneath its willows.  In the middle of the valley stood the impressive yellow church, with its Roman tower and rose-window; about it were the crumbling brown hovels of the deserted Mission.  Once as they rode Estenega thought he heard voices, but could not be sure, so loud was the clatter of the horses’ hoofs.  As they reached the square they drew rein swiftly, the horses standing upright at the sudden halt.  Then strange sounds came to them through the open doors of the church:  ribald shouts and loud laughter, curses and noise of smashing glass, such songs as never were sung in Carmelo before; an infernal clash of sound which mingled incongruously with the solemn mass of the surf.  Chonita’s eyes flashed.  Even Estenega’s face darkened:  the traditions planted in plastic youth arose and rebelled at the desecration.

“Some drunken sailors,” he said.  “There—­do you see that?” A craft rounded Point Lobos.  “Pirates!”

“Holy Mary!” exclaimed Chonita.

“Let down your hair,” he said, peremptorily; “and follow all that I suggest.  We will drive them out.”

She obeyed him without question, excited and interested.  Then they rode to the doors and threw them wide.

The upper end of the long church was swarming with pirates; there was no mistaking those bold, cruel faces, blackened by sun and wind, half covered with ragged hair.  They stood on the benches, they bestrode the railing, they swarmed over the altar, shouting and carousing in riotous wassail.  Their coarse red shirts were flung back from hairy chests, their faces were distorted with rum and sacrilegious delight.  Every station, every candlestick, had been hurled to the floor and trampled upon.  The crucifix stood on its head.  Sitting high on the altar, reeling and waving a communion goblet, was the drunken chief, singing a blasphemous song of the pirate seas.  The voices rumbled strangely down the hollow body of the church; to perfect the scene flames should have leaped among the swinging arms and bounding forms.