Monterey, all talking of the rumoured war between the United States and Mexico and prophesying various results.  Neither Pico nor Castro looked amiable.  The Governor had arrived in the morning to find that the General had allowed pasquinades representing his Excellency in no complimentary light to disfigure the streets of Monterey.  Castro, when taken to task, had replied haughtily that it was the Governor’s place to look after his own dignity; he, the Commandante-General of the army of the Californias, had more important matters to attend to.  The result had been a furious war of words, ending in a lame peace.

“Tell us, Excellency,” said Jose Abrigo, “what will be the outcome?”

“The Americans can have us if they wish,” said Pio Pico, bitterly.  “We cannot prevent.”

“Never!” cried Castro.  “What?  We cannot protect ourselves against the invasion of bandoleros?  Do you forget what blood stings the veins of the Californian?  A Spaniard stand with folded arms and see his country plucked from him!  Oh, sacrilege!  They will never have our Californias while a Californian lives to cut them down!”

“Bravo! bravo!” cried many voices.

“I tell you—­” began Pio Pico, but Dona Modeste interrupted him.  “No more talk of war to-night,” she said peremptorily.  “Where is Ysabel?”

“She sent me word by Dona Juana that she could not make herself ready in time to come with me, but would follow with my good friend, Don Antonio, who of course had to wait for her.  Her gown was not finished, I believe.  I think she had done something naughty, and Dona Juana had tried to punish her, but had not succeeded.  The old lady looked very sad.  Ah, here is Dona Ysabel now!”

“How lovely she is!” said Dona Modeste.  “I think—­What! what!—­”

“Dios de mi Alma!” exclaimed Pio Pico, “where did she get those pearls?”

The crowd near the door had parted, and Ysabel entered on the arm of her uncle.  Don Antonio’s form was bent, and she looked taller by contrast.  His thin sharp profile was outlined against her white neck, bared for the first time to the eyes of Monterey.  Her shawl had just been laid aside, and he was near-sighted and did not notice the pearls.

She had sewn them all over the front of her white silk gown.  She had wound them in the black coils of her hair.  They wreathed her neck and roped her arms.  Never had she looked so beautiful.  Her great green eyes were as radiant as spring.  Her lips were redder than blood.  A pink flame burned in her oval cheeks.  Her head moved like a Californian lily on its stalk.  No Montereno would ever forget her.

“El Son!” cried the young men, with one accord.  Her magnificent beauty extinguished every other woman in the room.  She must not hide her light in the contradanza.  She must madden all eyes at once.

Ysabel bent her head and glided to the middle of the room.  The other women moved back, their white gowns like a snowbank against the garish walls.  The thin sweet music of the instruments rose above the boom of the tide.  Ysabel lifted her dress with curving arms, displaying arched feet clad in flesh-coloured stockings and white slippers, and danced El Son.