Down the long road by the ocean rode a gay cavalcade.  The caballeros had haughtily refused to join the party, and the men wore the blue and gold of the United States.

But the women wore fluttering mantillas, and their prancing high-stepping horses were trapped with embossed leather and silver.  In a lumbering “wagon of the country,” drawn by oxen, running on solid wheels cut from the trunks of trees, but padded with silk, rode some of the older people of the town, disapproving, but overridden by the impatient enthusiasm of Dona Eustaquia.  Through the pine woods with their softly moving shadows and splendid aisles, out between the cypresses and rocky beach, wound the stately cavalcade, their voices rising above the sociable converse of the seals and the screeching of the seagulls spiking the rocks where the waves fought and foamed.  The gold on the shoulders of the men flashed in the moonlight; the jewels of the women sparkled and winked.  Two by two they came like a conquering army to the rescue of the cypresses.  Brotherton, who rode ahead with Dona Eustaquia, half expected to see the old trees rise upright with a deep shout of welcome.

When they reached a point where the sloping rocks rose high above surf and spray, they dismounted, leaving the Indian servants to tether the horses.  They climbed down the big smooth rocks and sat about in groups, although never beyond the range of older eyes, the cypresses lowering above them, the ocean tearing through the outer rocks to swirl and grumble in the pools.  The moon was so bright, its light so broad and silver, they almost could imagine they saw the gorgeous mass of colour in the pools below.

“You no have seaweed like that in Boston,” said Benicia, who had a comprehensive way of symbolizing the world by the city from which she got many of her clothes and all of her books.

“Indeed, no!” said Russell.  “The other day I sat for hours watching those great bunches and strands that look like richly coloured chenille.  And there were stones that looked like big opals studded with vivid jewels.  God of my soul, as you say, it was magnificent!  I never saw such brilliant colour, such delicate tints!  And those great rugged defiant rocks out there, lashed by the waves!  Look at that one; misty with spray one minute, bare and black the next!  They look like an old castle which has been battered down with cannon.  Captain, do you not feel romantic?”

“I feel that I never want to go into an art gallery again.  No wonder the women of California are original.”

“Benicia,” said Russell, “I have tried in vain to learn a Spanish song.  But teach me a Spanish phrase of endearment.  All our ‘darlings’ and ‘dearests’ are too flat for California.”

“Bueno; I teach you.  Say after me:  Mi muy querida prima.  That is very sweet.  Say.”

“Mi muy—­”

“Querida prima.”

“Que—­What is it in English?”

“My—­very—­darling—­first.  It no sound so pretty in English.”