“What can I do, Senora?” with a blend of whimsicality and desperation.  “I am an official without a staff.  And Sanchez a commander stripped of his soldados.”  He stepped to the door with them and looked down upon the dancing, rippling waters of the bay, where two ships rode.

“Let these gringos fight it out together.  This McTurpin is an Inglese, I am told, from their far colony across the sea.  If the Americanos triumph take your claim to them.  If not, God save you, my senora.  I cannot.”

Don Guillermo Richardson, the former harbormaster, came up the hill as Dona Anita emerged from the Alcalde’s office.  He was a friend of her husband—­a gringo—­but trusted by the Spanish Californians, many of whom he had befriended.  To him Mrs. Windham turned half desperately, confessing in a rush of words her family’s plight.  “What is to become of us?” she questioned passionately.  “Ah, that my Roberto were here!  He would know how to deal with these desperadoes.”  She gestured angrily toward the sloop-of-war which rode at anchor in the Bay.

“You have nothing to fear, my friend,” returned Richardson with a trace of asperity.  “Commodore Sloat is a gentleman.  He is, I understand, to seize Monterey and raise the the American flag there tomorrow.  Yet his instructions are that Californians are to be shown every courtesy.”

“And our rancho?” cried the boy.  “Will the Americano Capitan restore it to us, think you, Don Guillermo?”

“I know not,” said the other sadly.  “You should have thought of that before you gambled it away, my son.”

Benito hung his head.  Richardson passed on and the trio made their way toward the beach.  There they found Nathan Spear in excited converse with John Cooper and William Leidesdorff.

They were discussing the probability of an occupation by the American marines.  “If they come ashore,” said Leidesdorff, “I’ll invite them to my new house.  There’s plenty of rum for all, and we’ll drink a toast to Fremont and the California Republic as well.”

“Hurrah!  Hurrah!” came a cheer from several bystanders.

“I invite you all,” cried Leidesdorff, waving his hands and almost dancing in his eagerness.  “Every man-jack of you in all Yerba Buena.”

“How about the ladies, Leidesdorff?” called out a sailor.

“Ah, forgive me, Senora, Senorita!” cried the Dane remorsefully.  He swept off his wide-brimmed hat with an effort, for he had a fashion of jamming it very tightly upon his head.  He laid a hand enthusiastically upon the shoulders of both Spear and Cooper.  “It grows better and better.  Tomorrow, if the Captain is willing,” he jerked his head toward the Portsmouth, “tomorrow evening we shall have a grand ball.  It shall celebrate the day of independence.”

“But tomorrow is the eighth of July,” said Cooper.

“What matter?” Leidesdorff exclaimed, now thoroughly enthusiastic.  “It’s the spirit of the thing that counts, my friends.”