Washington Bartlett, recently elected Alcalde, had abused his office by repeated confiscations of fine horses from the camponeras of Spanish-Californians, seizing them by requisition of military authority and giving orders on the government in exchange.  This the Spaniards had borne in silence.  But abuses had become so flagrant as to pass all bounds.

“We must arm and drive these robbers from our California,” said Benito passionately.  “Sanchez has, in secret, organized one hundred caballeros.  Only wait.  The day comes when we strike!”

“Benito,” said his mother, sadly, “there has been enough of war.  We cannot struggle with these Yankees.  They are strong and numerous.  We must keep the peace and suffer until your father comes.”

“There is to be a grand ball at the casa of the Senor Leidesdorff,” said Inez.  “El Grande Commandante of the Yankee squadron comes amid great ceremony.  I will gain his ear.  Perchance he will undo the wrongs of this Bartlett, the despoiler.”

“Inez mia,” said her brother, “do not go.  No good will come of it.  For they are all alike, these foreigners.”

“Ah!” she cried, reproachfully, “you say that of the Senor Brannan?  Or of Don Nathan?”

“They are good men,” Benito answered, grudgingly.  “Have it as you will.”

* * * * *

Yerba Buena did honor to Commodore Stockton under Leidesdorff’s ever-hospitable roof.  Hundreds of candles burned in sconces and chandeliers, festoons of bunting and greenery gave the big room a carnival air; Indian servitors flitted silently about with trays of refreshments, and the gold lace and braid of America’s navy mingled picturesquely with the almost spectacular garb of stately Spanish caballeros.  The commodore, though undersized, was soldierly and very brisk of manner.  Stockton seemed to Inez a gallant figure.  While she danced with him, she found his brisk directness not unpleasing.  He asked her of the rancheros and of reports that came to him of their dissatisfaction with American authority.

“They seem so cordial,” he said, “these Spanish gentlemen.  I cannot believe that they hate us, as it is said.”

“Ah, Senor.”  Inez’ smile had faded and her deep and troubled eyes held his.  “They have cause for hatred, though they come in all good will to welcome you.”

As it chanced, they passed just then close to a little group in which Alcalde Bartlett made a central figure.  Two of Stockton’s aids were hanging on his words.

“Tomorrow, gentlemen, we shall go riding.  I will find you each a worthy mount.  We raise fine horses on the ranches.”

The fiery Sanchez, strolling by, overheard as well.  Eyes ablaze, he went on swiftly joining Vasquez and De Haro near the door.  They held low converse for an instant with their smouldering glances on the pompous Bartlett.  Then they hurried out.

[Illustration:  “Ah, Senor,” Inez’ smile had faded ... “they have cause for hatred.”]