“Has he gone?” asked Dona Eustaquia.  “Then let us go in the house, for the fog comes from the bay.”

They went into the little sala and sat about the table.  Dona Eustaquia picked up a silver dagger she used as a paper cutter and tapped a book with it.

“Ay, this will not last long,” she said to Brotherton.  “I much am afraid your Commodore send you to the South to fight with our men.”

“I shall return,” said Brotherton, absently.  His eyes were fixed on the door.

“But it will not be long that you will be there, my friend.  Many people are not killed in our wars.  Once there was a great battle at Point Rincon, near Santa Barbara, between Castro and Carillo.  Carillo have been appointed governor by Mejico, and Alvarado refuse to resign.  They fight for three days, and Castro manage so well he lose only one man, and the others run away and not lose any.”

Brotherton laughed.  “I hope all our battles may be as bloodless,” he said, and then drew a short breath.

Russell, accompanied by Don Jorje and Dona Francesca Hernandez and the priest of Monterey, entered the room.

Dona Eustaquia rose and greeted her guests with grace and hospitality.

“But I am glad to see you, my father, my friends.  And you always are welcome, Senor Russell; but no more joke.  Where is our Blandina?  Sit down—­Why, what is it?”

The priest spoke.

“I have that to tell you, Dona Eustaquia, which I fear will give you great displeasure.  I hoped not to be the one to tell it.  I was weak to consent, but these young people importuned me until I was weary.  Dona Eustaquia, I married Benicia to the Senor Russell to-day.”

Dona Eustaquia’s head had moved forward mechanically, her eyes staring incredulously from the priest to the other members of the apprehensive group.  Suddenly her apathy left her, her arm curved upward like the neck of a snake; but as she sprang upon Benicia her ferocity was that of a tiger.

“What!” she shrieked, shaking the girl violently by the shoulder.  “What! ingrate! traitor!  Thou hast married an American, a Protestant!”

Benicia burst into terrified sobs.  Russell swung the girl from her mother’s grasp and placed his arm around her.

“She is mine now,” he said.  “You must not touch her again.”

“Yours!  Yours!” screamed Dona Eustaquia, beside herself.  “Oh, Mother of God!” She snatched the dagger from the table and, springing backward, plunged it into the cross.

“By that sign I curse thee,” she cried.  “Accursed be the man who has stolen my child!  Accursed be the woman who has betrayed her mother and her country!  God!  God!—­I implore thee, let her die in her happiest hour.”

XII