Dona Eustaquia gave the young man one of her rare smiles; it flashed over her strong dark face, until the light of youth was there once more.

“Very pretty speech,” she said, with slow precision.  “I thank you, Senor Russell, in the name of the women of Monterey.”

“By Jove!  Madam—­senora—­I assure you I never felt so cut up in my life as when I saw all those beautiful women crying down there by the Custom-house.  I am a good American, but I would rather have thrown the flag under your feet than have seen you cry like that.  And I assure you, dear senora, every man among us felt the same.  As you have been good enough to thank me in the name of the women of Monterey, I, in behalf of the officers of the United States squadron, beg that you will forgive us.”

Dona Eustaquia’s cheek paled again, and she set her lips for a moment; then she held out her hand.

“Senor,” she said, “we are conquered, but we are Californians; and although we do not bend the head, neither do we turn the back.  We have invite you to our houses, and we cannot treat you like enemies.  I will say with—­how you say it—­truth?—­we did hate the thought that you come and take the country that was ours.  But all is over and cannot be changed.  So, it is better we are good friends than poor ones; and—­and—­my house is open to you, senor.”

Russell was a young man of acute perceptions; moreover, he had heard of Dona Eustaquia; he divined in part the mighty effort by which good breeding and philosophy had conquered bitter resentment.  He raised the little white hand to his lips.

“I would that I were twenty men, senora.  Each would be your devoted servant.”

“And then she have her necklace!” cried Benicia, delightedly.

“What is that?” asked Russell; but Dona Eustaquia shook her fan threateningly and turned away.

“I no tell you everything,” said Benicia, “so no be too curiosa.  You no dance the contradanza, no?”

“I regret to say that I do not.  But this is a plain waltz; will you not give it to me?”

Benicia, disregarding the angry glances of approaching caballeros, laid her hand on the officer’s shoulder, and he spun her down the room.

“Why, you no dance so bad!” she said with surprise.  “I think always the Americanos dance so terreeblay.”

“Who could not dance with a fairy in his arms?”

“What funny things you say.  I never been called fairy before.”

“You have never been interpreted.”  And then, in the whirl-waltz of that day, both lost their breath.

When the dance was over and they stood near Dona Eustaquia, he took the fan from Benicia’s hand and waved it slowly before her.  She laughed outright.

“You think I am so tired I no can fan myself?” she demanded.  “How queer are these Americanos!  Why, I have dance for three days and three nights and never estop.”

“Senorita!”