“No,” said Don Guillermo.  “He must be a diputado to Mexico.  I would not lose my only son in battle.  I am ambitious for him; and so art thou, Chonita, for thy brother?  Is it not so?”

“Yes.  I have it in me to stab the heart of any man who rolls a stone in his way.”

“My daughter,” said Don Guillermo, with the accent of duty rather than of reproof, “thou must love without vengeance.  Sustain thy brother, but harm not his enemy.  I would not have thee hate even an Estenega, although I cannot love them myself.  But we will not talk of the Estenegas.  Dost thou realize that our Reinaldo will be with us this night?  We must all go to confession to-morrow,—­thy mother and myself, Eustaquia, Reinaldo, Prudencia, and thyself.”

Chonita’s face became rigid.  “I cannot go to confession,” she said.  “It may be months before I can:  perhaps never.”

“What?”

“Can one go to confession with a hating and an unforgiving heart?  Ay! that I never had gone to Monterey!  At least I had the consolation of my religion before.  Now I fight the darkness by myself.  Do not ask me questions, for I shall not answer them.  But taunt me no more with confession.”

Even Don Guillermo was dumb.  In all the twenty-four years of her life she never had betrayed violence of spirit before:  even her hatred of the Estenegas had been a religion rather than a personal feeling.  It was the first glimpse of her soul that she had accorded them, and they were aghast.  What—­what had happened to this proud, reserved, careless daughter of the Iturbi y Moncadas?

Dona Trinidad drew down her mouth.  Prudencia began to cry.  Then, for the moment, Chonita was forgotten.  Two horses galloped into the court-yard.

“Reinaldo!”

The door had but an inside knob:  Don Guillermo threw it open as a young man sprang up the three steps of the corridor, followed by a little man who carefully picked his way.

“Yes, I am here, my father, my mother, my sister, my Prudencia!  Ay, Eustaquia, thou too.”  And the pride of the house kissed each in turn, his dark eyes wandering absently about the room.  He was a dashing caballero, and as handsome as any ever born in the Californias.  The dust of travel had been removed—­at a saloon—­from his blue velvet gold-embroidered serape, which he immediately flung on the floor.  His short jacket and trousers were also of dark-blue velvet, the former decorated with buttons of silver filigree, the latter laced with silver cord over spotless linen.  The front of his shirt was covered with costly lace.  His long botas were of soft yellow leather stamped with designs in silver and gartered with blue ribbon.  The clanking spurs were of silver inlaid with gold.  The sash, knotted gracefully over his hip, was of white silk.  His curled black hair was tied with a blue ribbon, and clung, clustering and damp, about a low brow.  He bore a strange resemblance to Chonita, in spite of the difference of color, but