Every one in the room was talking at once.  Dona Eustaquia smote her hands together, then clasped and raised them aloft.

“Thanks to God!” she cried.  “California has come to her senses at last!”

Altimira bent his lips to her ear.  “I go to fight the Americans,” he whispered.

She caught his hand between both her own and pressed it convulsively to her breast.  “Go,” she said, “and may God and Mary protect thee.  Go, my son, and when thou returnest I will give thee Benicia.  Thou art a son after my heart, a brave man and a good Catholic.”

Benicia, standing near, heard the words.  For the first time Russell saw the expression of careless audacity leave her face, her pink colour fade.

“What is that man saying to your mother?” he demanded.

“She promise me to him when he come back; he go to join General Castro.”

“Benicia!” He glanced about.  Altimira had left the house.  Every one was too excited to notice them.  He drew her across the hall and into the little sala, deserted since the startling news had come.  “Benicia,” he said hurriedly, “there is no time to be lost.  You are such a butterfly I hardly know whether you love me or not.”

“I no am such butterfly as you think,” said the girl, pathetically.  “I often am very gay, for that is my spirit, senor; but I cry sometimes in the night.”

“Well, you are not to cry any more, my very darling first!” He took her in his arms and kissed her, and she did not box his ears.  “I may be ordered off at any moment, and what may they not do with you while I am gone?  So I have a plan!  Marry me to-morrow!”

“Ay!  Senor!”

“To-morrow.  At your friend Blandina’s house.  The Hernandez like the Americans; in fact, as we all know, Tallant is in love with Blandina and the old people do not frown.  They will let us marry there.”

“Ay!  Cielo santo!  What my mother say?  She kill me!”

“She will forgive you, no matter how angry she may be at first.  She loves you—­almost as much as I do.”

The girl withdrew from his arms and walked up and down the room.  Her face was very pale, and she looked older.  On one side of the room hung a large black cross, heavily mounted with gold.  She leaned her face against it and burst into tears.  “Ay, my home!  My mother!” she cried under her breath.  “How I can leave you?  Ay, triste de mi!” She turned suddenly to Russell, whose face was as white as her own, and put to him the question which we have not yet answered.  “What is this love?” she said rapidly.  “I no can understand.  I never feel before.  Always I laugh when men say they love me; but I never laugh again.  In my heart is something that shake me like a lion shake what it go to kill, and make me no care for my mother or my God—­and you are a Protestant!  I have love my mother like I have love that cross; and now a man come—­a stranger! a conqueror! a Protestant! an American!  And he twist my heart out with his hands!  But I no can help.  I love you and I go.”