at heedless youth.  The young men had ribbons twisted in their long black hair, and silver eagles on their soft gray sombreros.  Their velvet serapes were embroidered with gold; the velvet knee-breeches were laced with gold or silver cord over fine white linen; long deer-skin botas were gartered with vivid ribbon; flaunting sashes bound their slender waists, knotted over the hip.  The girls and young married women wore black or white mantillas, the silken lace of Spain, regardless of the sun which might darken their Castilian fairness.  Their gowns were of flowered silk or red or yellow satin, the waist long and pointed, the skirt full; jeweled buckles of tiny slippers flashed beneath the hem.  The old people were in rich dress of sober color.  A few Americans were there in the ugly garb of their country, a blot on the picture.

At the door, just in front of the cavalcade, stood General Vallejo’s carriage, the only one in California, sent from Sonoma for the occasion.  Beside it were three superbly-trapped horses.

The governor placed the swelling nurse in the carriage, then glanced about him.  “Where is Estenega?—­and the Castros?” he asked.

“There are Don Jose and Dona Modeste Castro,” said Chonita.

The crowd had parted suddenly, and two men and a woman rode toward the governor.  One of the men was tall and dark, and his somber military attire became the stern sadness of his face.  Castro was not Comandante-general of the army at that time, but his bearing was as imperious in that year of 1840 as when six years later the American Occupation closed forever the career of a man made in derision for greatness.  At his right rode his wife, one of the most queenly beauties of her time, small as she was in stature.  Every woman’s eye turned to her at once; she was our leader of fashion, and we all copied the gowns that came to her from the city of Mexico.

But Chonita gave no heed to the Castros.  She fixed her cold direct regard on the man who rode with them, and whom, she knew, must be Diego Estenega, for he was their guest.  She was curious to see this enemy of her house, the political rival of her brother, the owner of the voice which had given her the first thrill of her life.  He was dressed as plainly as Castro, and had none of the rich southern beauty of the caballeros.  His hair was cut short like Alvarado’s, and his face was thin and almost sallow.  But the life that was in that face! the passion, the intelligence, the kindness, the humor, the grim determination!  And what splendid vitality was in his tall thin figure, and nervous activity under the repose of his carriage!  I remember I used to think in those days that Diego Estenega could conquer the world if he wished, although I suspected that he lacked one quality of the great rulers of men,—­inexorable cruelty.

From the moment his horse carried him into the plaza he did not remove his eyes from Chonita’s face.  She lowered hers angrily after a moment.  As he reached the house he sprang to the ground, and Alvarado presented the sponsors.  He lifted his cap and bowed, but not as low as the caballeros who were wont to prostrate themselves before her.  They murmured the usual form of salutation: