“Was thy lover in the road below, Pilar?” asked Dona Concepcion, with what meaning five of the girls could not divine.  For Pilar, the prettiest and most studious girl in the convent, cared for no man.

Pilar’s bosom rose once, but she made no reply.

“Come,” said Dona Concepcion, and the six followed meekly in her wake.  She led them to her private sala, a bare cold room, even in summer.  It was uncarpeted; a few religious prints were on the whitewashed walls; there were eight chairs, and a table covered with books and papers.  The six shivered.  To be invited to this room meant the greatest of honours or a lecture precursory to the severest punishment in the system of the convent.  Dona Concepcion seated herself in a large chair, but her guests were not invited to relieve their weakened knees.

“Did you speak—­any of you?” she asked in a moment.

Five heads shook emphatically.

“But?”

Eustaquia, Elena, and Lola drew a long breath, then confessed their misdoings glibly enough.

“And the others?”

“They had no chance,” said Eustaquia, with some sarcasm.

“Thou wouldst have found a chance,” replied the Lady Superior, coldly.  “Thou art the first in all naughtiness, and thy path in life will be stormy if thou dost not curb thy love of adventure and insubordination.”

She covered her face with her hand and regarded the floor for some moments in silence.  It was the first performance of the kind that had come to her knowledge, and she was at a loss what to do.  Finally she said severely:  “Go each to your bed and remain there on bread and water for twenty-four hours.  Your punishment shall be known at the Presidio.  And if it ever happens again, I shall send you home in disgrace.  Now go.”

The luckless six slunk out of the room.  Only Pilar stole a hasty glance at the Lady Superior.  Dona Concepcion half rose from her chair, and opened her lips as if to speak again; then sank back with a heavy sigh.

The girls were serenaded that night; but the second song broke abruptly, and a heavy gate clanged just afterward.  Concepcion de Arguello was still young, but suffering had matured her character, and she knew how to deal sternly with those who infringed her few but inflexible rules.  It was by no means the first serenade she had interrupted, for she educated the flower of California, and it was no simple matter to prevent communication between the girls in her charge and the ardent caballeros.  She herself had been serenaded more than once since the sudden death of her Russian lover; for she who had been the belle of California for three years before the coming of Rezanof was not lightly relinquished by the impassioned men of her own race; but both at Casa Grande, in Santa Barbara, where she found seclusion until her convent was built, and after her immolation in Monterey, she turned so cold an ear to all men’s ardours that