On Christmas eve light streamed from every window, bonfires flared on the hills; the streets were illuminated, and every one was abroad.  The clear warm night was ablaze with fireworks; men and women were in their gala gowns; rockets shot upward amidst shrieks of delight which mingled oddly with the rolling of drums at muster; even the children caught the enthusiasm, religious and patriotic.

“I suppose you would be glad to see even your friends driven out,” said Brotherton to Dona Eustaquia, as they walked through the brilliant town toward the church:  bells called them to witness the dramatic play of “The Shepherds.”

“I be glad to see the impertinent flag come down,” said she, frankly; “but you can make resignation from the army, and have a little store on Alvarado Street.  You can have beautiful silks and crepes from America.  I buy of you.”

“Thanks,” he said grimly.  “You would put a dunce cap on poor America, and stand her in a corner.  If I resign, Dona Eustaquia, it will be to become a ranchero, not a shopkeeper.  To tell the truth, I have little desire to leave California again.”

“But you were make for the fight,” she said, looking up with some pride at the tall military figure, the erect head and strong features.  “You not were make to lie in the hammock and horseback all day.”

“But I should do a good deal else, senora.  I should raise cattle with some method; and I should have a library—­and a wife.”

“Ah! you go to marry?”

“Some day, I hope.  It would be lonely to be a ranchero without a wife.”

“Truly.”

“What is the matter with those women?”

A group of old women stood by the roadside.  Their forms were bent, their brown faces gnarled like apples.  Some were a shapeless mass of fat, others were parchment and bone; about the head and shoulders of each was a thick black shawl.  Near them stood a number of young girls clad in muslin petticoats, flowered with purple and scarlet.  Bright satin shoes were on their feet, cotton rebosas covered their pretty, pert little heads.  All were looking in one direction, whispering and crossing themselves.

Dona Eustaquia glanced over her shoulder, then leaned heavily on Brotherton’s arm.

“It is Benicia,” she said.  “It is because she was cursed and is with child that they cross themselves.”

Brotherton held her arm closely and laid his hand on hers, but he spoke sternly.

“The curse is not likely to do her any harm.  You prayed that she should die when happiest, and you have done your best to make her wretched.”

She did not reply, and they walked slowly onward.  Benicia followed, leaning on the arm of an Indian servant.  Her friends avoided her, for they bitterly resented Altimira’s death.  But she gave them little regret.  Since her husband could not be with her on this Christmas eve, she wished only for reconciliation with her mother.  In spite of the crowd she followed close behind Dona Eustaquia and Brotherton, holding her head proudly, but ready to fall at the feet of the woman she worshipped.