It was over at last, and as the bride and groom appeared in the door of the church and descended the steps, a salute was fired from the Presidio.  On the long corridor a table had been built from end to end and a goodly banquet provided by the padres.  We took our seats at once, the populace gathering about a feast spread for them on the grass.

Padre Jimeno, the priest who had officiated at the ceremony, sat at the head of the table; the other priests were scattered among us, and good company all of them were.  We were a very lively party.  Prudencia was toasted until her calm important head whirled.  Reinaldo made a speech as full of flowers as the occasion demanded.  Alvarado made one also, five sentences of plain well-chosen words, to which the bridegroom listened with scorn.  Now and again a girl swept the strings of a guitar or a caballero sang.  The delighted shrieks of the people came over to us; at regular intervals cannons were fired.

Estenega found himself seated between Chonita and Valencia.  I was opposite, and beginning to feel profoundly fascinated by this drama developing before my eyes.  I saw that he was amused by the situation and not in the least disconcerted.  Valencia was nervous and eager.  Chonita, whose pride never failed her, had drawn herself up and looked coldly indifferent.

“Senor,” murmured Valencia, “thou wilt tarry with us long, no?  We have much to show thee in Santa Barbara, and on our ranchos.”

“I fear that I can stay but a week, senorita.  I must return to Los Angeles.”

“Would nothing tempt thee to stay, Don Diego?”

He looked into her rich Southern face and approved of it:  when had he ever failed to approve of a pretty woman?  “Thine eyes, senorita, would tempt a man to forget more than duty.”

“And thou wilt stay?”

“When I leave Santa Barbara what I take of myself will not be worth leaving.”

“Ay! and what thou leavest thou never shalt have again.”

“There is my hope of heaven, senorita.”

He turned from this glittering conversation to Chonita.

“You are a little tired,” he said, in a low voice.  “Your color has gone, and the shadows are coming about your eyes.”

The suspicion was borne home to her that he must have observed her closely to detect those shades of difference which no one else had noted.

“A little, senor.  I went to bed late and rose early.  Such times as these tax the endurance.  But after a siesta I shall be refreshed.”

“You look strong and very healthy.”

“Ay, but I am!  I am not delicate at all.  I can ride all day, and swim—­which few of our women do.  I even like to walk; and I can dance every night for a week.  Only, this is an unusual time.”

Her supple elastic figure and healthy whiteness of skin betokened endurance and vitality, and he looked at her with pleasure.  “Yes, you are strong,” he said.  “You look as if you would last,—­as if you never would grow brown nor stout.”