On August twelfth Commodore Hull arrived on the frigate Warren, from Mazatlan, and brought the first positive intelligence of the declaration of war between Mexico and the United States.  Before the middle of the month news came that Castro and Pico, after gallant defence, but overwhelmed by numbers, had fled, the one to Sonora, the other to Baja California.  A few days after, Stockton issued a proclamation to the effect that the flag of the United States was flying over every town in the territory of California; and Alcalde Colton announced that the rancheros were more than satisfied with the change of government.

A month later a mounted courier dashed into Monterey with a note from the Alcalde of Los Angeles, wrapped about a cigarito and hidden in his hair.  The note contained the information that all the South was in arms again, and that Los Angeles was in the hands of the Californians.  Russell was ordered to go with Captain Mervine, on the Savannah, to join Gillespie at San Pedro; Brotherton was left at Monterey with Lieutenant Maddox and a number of men to quell a threatened uprising.  Later came the news of Mervine’s defeat and the night of Talbot from Santa Barbara; and by November California was in a state of general warfare, each army receiving new recruits every day.

Dona Eustaquia, hard and stern, praying for the triumph of her people, lived alone in the old house.  Benicia, praying for the return of her husband and the relenting of her mother, lived alone in her little house on the hill.  Friends had interceded, but Dona Eustaquia had closed her ears.  Brotherton went to her one day with the news that Lieutenant Russell was wounded.

“I must tell Benicia,” he said, “but it is you who should do that.”

“She betray me, my friend.”

“Oh, Eustaquia, make allowance for the lightness of youth.  She barely realized what she did.  But she loves him now, and suffers bitterly.  She should be with you.”

“Ay!  She suffer for another!  She love a strange man—­an American—­better than her mother!  And it is I who would die for her!  Ay, you cold Americans!  Never you know how a mother can love her child.”

“The Americans know how to love, senora.  And Benicia was thoroughly spoiled by her devoted mother.  She was carried away by her wild spirits, nothing more.”

“Then much better she live on them now.”

Dona Eustaquia sat with her profile against the light.  It looked severe and a little older, but she was very handsome in her rich black gown and the gold chain about her strong throat.  Her head, as usual, was held a little back.  Brotherton sat down beside her and took her hand.

“Eustaquia,” he said, “no friendship between man and woman was ever deeper and stronger than ours.  In spite of the anxiety and excitement of these last months we have found time to know each other very intimately.  So you will forgive me if I tell you that the more a friend loves you the more he must be saddened by the terrible iron in your nature.  Only the great strength of your passions has saved you from hardening into an ugly and repellent woman.  You are a mother; forgive your child; remember that she, too, is about to be a mother—­”