own stupidity, and Pico laughed in his face.  Beale felt satisfaction and compunction in saturating the silk and silver of one fine saddle with the blood of its owner.  The point of the dying man’s lance pierced his face, but he noted the bleaching of Kearney’s, as one dragoon after another was flung upon the sharp rocks over which his bewildered brute stumbled, or was caught and held aloft in the torturing arms of the cacti.

On the edge of the battle two men had forgotten the Aztec Eagle and the Stars and Stripes; they fought for love of a woman.  Neither had had time to draw his pistol; they fought with lance and sabre, thrusting and parrying.  Both were skilful swordsmen, but Altimira’s horse was far superior to Russell’s, and he had the advantage of weapons.

“One or the other die on the rocks,” said the Californian, “and si I kill you, I marry Benicia.”

Russell made no reply.  He struck aside the man’s lance and wounded his wrist.  But Altimira was too excited to feel pain.  His face was quivering with passion.

It is not easy to parry a lance with a sabre, and still more difficult to get close enough to wound the man who wields it.  Russell rose suddenly in his stirrups, described a rapid half-circle with his weapon, brought it down midway upon the longer blade, and snapped the latter in two.  Altimira gave a cry of rage, and spurring his horse sought to ride his opponent down; but Russell wheeled, and the two men simultaneously snatched their pistols from the holsters.  Altimira fired first, but his hand was unsteady and his ball went through a cactus.  Russell raised his pistol with firm wrist, and discharged it full in the face of the Californian.

Then he looked over the field.  Moore, fatally lanced, lay under a palm, and many of his men were about him.  Gillespie was wounded, Kearney had received an ugly thrust.  The Californians, upon the arrival of the main body of the enemy’s troops, had retreated unpursued; the mules attached to one of the American howitzers were scampering over to the opposite ranks, much to the consternation of Kearney.  The sun, looking over the mountain, dissipated the gray smoke, and cast a theatrical light on the faces of the dead.  Russell bent over Altimira.  His head was shattered, but his death was avenged.  Never had an American troop suffered a more humiliating defeat.  Only six Californians lay on the field; and when the American surgeon, after attending to his own wounded, offered his services to Pico’s, that indomitable general haughtily replied that he had none.

“By Jove!” said Russell to Beale that night, “you know your Californians!  I am prouder than ever of having married one!  That army is of the stuff of which my mother-in-law is made!”

XIV

That was a gay Christmas at Monterey, despite the barricades in the street.  News had come of the defeat of Kearney at San Pasqual, and the Monterenos, inflated with hope and pride, gave little thought to the fact that his forces were now joined with Stockton’s at San Diego.