Dona Eustaquia laid her strong arm about her friend, but her eyes were more angry than soft.  “Weep no more, Modeste,” she said.  “Rather, arise and curse those who have flung a great man into the dust.  But comfort thyself.  Who can know?  Thy husband, weary with fighting, disgusted with men, may cling the closer to thee, and with thee and thy children forget the world in thy redwood forests or between the golden hills of thy ranchos.”

Dona Modeste shook her head.  “Thou speakest the words of kindness, but thou knowest Jose.  Thou knowest that he would not be content to be as other men.  And, ay!  Eustaquia, to think that it was opposite our own dear home, our favourite home, that the American flag should first have been raised!  Opposite the home of Jose Castro!”

“To perdition with Fremont!  Why did he, of all places, select San Juan Bautista in which to hang up his American rag?”

“We never can live there again.  The Gabilan Mountains would shut out the very face of the sun from my husband.”

“Do not weep, my Modeste; remember thy other beautiful ranchos.  Dios de mi alma!” she added with a flash of humour, “I revere San Juan Bautista for your husband’s sake, but I weep not that I shall visit you there no more.  Every day I think to hear that the shaking earth of that beautiful valley has opened its jaws and swallowed every hill and adobe.  God grant that Fremont’s hair stood up more than once.  But go to bed, my friend.  Look, I will put you there.”  As if Dona Modeste were an infant, she undressed and laid her between the linen sheets with their elaborate drawn work, then made her drink a glass of angelica, folded and laid away the satin coverlet, and left the house.

She walked up the plaza slowly, holding her head high.  Monterey at that time was infested by dogs, some of them very savage.  Dona Eustaquia’s strong soul had little acquaintance with fear, and on her way to General Castro’s house she had paid no attention to the snarling muzzles thrust against her gown.  But suddenly a cadaverous creature sprang upon her with a savage yelp and would have caught her by the throat had not a heavy stick cracked its skull.  A tall officer in the uniform of the United States navy raised his cap from iron-gray hair and looked at her with blue eyes as piercing as her own.

“You will pardon me, madam,” he said, “if I insist upon attending you to your door.  It is not safe for a woman to walk alone in the streets of Monterey at night.”

Dona Eustaquia bent her head somewhat haughtily.  “I thank you much, senor, for your kind rescue.  I would not like, at all, to be eaten by the dogs.  But I not like to trouble you to walk with me.  I go only to the house of the Senor Larkin.  It is there, at the end of the little street beyond the plaza.”

“My dear madam, you must not deprive the United States of the pleasure of protecting California.  Pray grant my humble request to walk behind you and keep off the dogs.”