Dona Martina raised her hand.  Chonita stood in the door-way.  She was quite beautiful enough to plant thorns where she listed.  Her tall supple figure was clothed in white, and over her gold hair—­lurid and brilliant, but without a tinge of red—­she wore a white lace mantilla.  Her straight narrow brows and heavy lashes were black; but her skin was more purely white than her gown.  Her nose was finely cut, the arch almost indiscernible, and she had the most sculptured mouth I have ever seen.  Her long eyes were green, dark, and luminous.  Sometimes they had the look of a child, sometimes she allowed them to flash with the fire of an animated spirit.  But the expression she chose to cultivate was that associated with crowned head and sceptered hand; and sure no queen had ever looked so calm, so inexorable, so haughty, so terribly clear of vision.  She never posed—­for any one, at least, but herself.  For some reason—­a youthful reason probably—­the iron in her nature was most admired by her.  Wherefore,—­also, as she had the power, as twin, to heal and curse,—­I had named her the Doomswoman, and by this name she was known far and wide.  By the lower class of Santa Barbara she was called The Golden Senorita, on account of her hair and of her father’s vast wealth.

“Come,” she said, “every one is waiting.  Do not you hear the voices?”

The windows were closed, but through them came a murmur like that of a pine forest.

The governor motioned to the nurse to follow Chonita and myself, and she trotted after us, her ugly face beaming with pride of position.  Was not in her arms the oldest-born of a new generation of Alvarados? the daughter of the governor of The Californias?  Her smock, embroidered with silk, was new, and looked whiter than fog against her bare brown arms and face.  Her short red satin skirt, a gift of her happy lady’s, was the finest ever worn by exultant nurse.  About her stringy old throat was a gold chain, bright red roses were woven in her black reboso.  I saw her admire Chonita’s stately figure with scornful reserve of the colorless gown.

We were followed in a moment by the governor, adjusting his collar and smoothing his hair.  As he reached the door-way at the front of the house he was greeted with a shout from assembled Monterey.  The plaza was gay with beaming faces and bright attire.  The men, women, and children of the people were on foot, a mass of color on the opposite side of the plaza:  the women in gaudy cotton frocks girt with silken sashes, tawdry jewels, and spotless camisas, the coquettish reboso draping with equal grace faces old and brown, faces round and olive; the men in glazed sombreros, short calico jackets and trousers; Indians wound up in gala blankets.  In the foreground, on prancing silver-trapped horses, were caballeros and donas, laughing and coquetting, looking down in triumph upon the duenas and parents who rode older and milder mustangs and shook brown knotted fingers