David Broderick discussed it frequently with Alice Windham.  He had fallen into a habit of coming to the ranch when wearied by affairs of state.  He was a silent, brooding man, robbed somehow of his national heritage, a sense of humor, for he had Irish blood.  He was a man of fire, implacable as an enemy, inalienable as a friend.  And to Alice, as she sat embroidering or knitting before the fire, he told many of his dreams, his plans.  She would nod her head sagely, giving him her eyes now and then—­eyes that were clear and calm with understanding.

Thus Alice came to know what boded for the town of San Francisco.  “Benito,” she said one night, when Broderick had gone, “Benito, my dearest, will you let me stir you—­even if it wounds?” She came up behind him quickly; put her arms about his neck and leaned her golden head against his own.  “We are sitting here too quietly ... while life goes by,” her tone was wistful.  “You, especially, Benito.  Outside teems the world; the gorgeous, vibrant world of which our David speaks.”

“What do you want me to do?” he asked, stirring restlessly, “go into business?  Make money—­like Adrian?”

“No, no,” she nestled closer.  “It isn’t money that I crave.  We are happy here.  But”—­she looked up at the portrait of Francisco Garvez, and Benito followed her glance.  “What would he have you do?”

“I promised him in thought,” her husband said, “that I would help to build the city he loved.  It was a prophecy,” his tone grew dreamy, “a prophecy that he and his—­the Garvez blood—­should always stir in San Francisco’s heart.”  Swiftly he rose and, standing very straight before the picture, raised his right hand to salute.  “You are right,” he said.  “He would have wanted me to be a soldier.”

But Alice shook her head.  “The conquest is over,” she told him.  “San Francisco needs no gun nor saber now.  In our courts and legislatures lie the future battlegrounds for justice.  You must study law, Benito....  I want”—­quick color tinged her face—­“I want my—­son to have a father who—­”

“Alice!” cried Benito.  But she fled from him.  The door of her bedroom closed behind her.  But it opened again very softly—­“who makes his country’s laws,” she finished, fervently.

CHAPTER XXXI

THE VIGILANCE COMMITTEE

About 8 o’clock on the evening of February 19, 1851, two men entered the store of C.J.  Jansen & Co., a general merchandise shop on Montgomery street.  The taller and older presented a striking figure.  He was of such height that, possibly from entering many low doorways, he had acquired a slight stoop.  His beard was long and dark, his hair falling to the collar, was a rich and wavy brown.  He had striking eyes, an aquiline nose and walked with a long, measured stride.  Charles Jansen, alone in the store, noted these characteristics half unconsciously and paid little attention to the smaller man who lurked behind his companion in the shadows.