“No, senor.”

“Dios de mi alma!  Thou hast ambition.  No woman has had more offered her than thou.  But thou art worthy of the most that man could give.  Had I not a wife myself, I believe I should throw my jewels and my ugly old head at thy little feet.”

Ysabel glanced with some envy at the magnificent jewels with which the Governor of the Californias was hung, but did not covet the owner.  An uglier man than Pio Pico rarely had entered this world.  The upper lip of his enormous mouth dipped at the middle; the broad thick underlip hung down with its own weight.  The nose was big and coarse, although there was a certain spirited suggestion in the cavernous nostrils.  Intelligence and reflectiveness were also in his little eyes, and they were far apart.  A small white mustache grew above his mouth; about his chin, from ear to ear, was a short stubby beard, whiter by contrast with his copper-coloured skin.  He looked much like an intellectual bear.

And Ysabel?  In truth, she had reason for her pride.  Her black hair, unblemished by gloss or tinge of blue, fell waving to her feet.  California, haughty, passionate, restless, pleasure-loving, looked from her dark green eyes; the soft black lashes dropped quickly when they became too expressive.  Her full mouth was deeply red, but only a faint pink lay in her white cheeks; the nose curved at bridge and nostrils.  About her low shoulders she held a blue reboso, the finger-tips of each slim hand resting on the opposite elbow.  She held her head a little back, and Pio Pico laughed as he looked at her.

“Dios!” he said, “but thou might be an Estenega or an Iturbi y Moncada.  Surely that lofty head better suits old Spain than the republic of Mexico.  Draw the reboso about thy head now, and let us go down.  They expect thee.”

She lifted the scarf above her hair, and walked down the steep rutted hill with the Governor, her flowered gown floating with a silken rustle about her.  In a few moments she was listening to the tale of the races.

“Ay, Ysabel!  Dios de mi alma!  What a day!  A young senor from Los Angeles won the race—­almost all the races—­the Senor Don Vicente de la Vega y Arillaga.  He has never been here, before.  His horses!  Madre de Dios!  They ran like hares.  Poor Guido!  Valgame Dios!  Even thou wouldst have been moved to pity.  But he is so handsome!  Look!  Look!  He comes now, side by side with General Castro.  Dios! his serape is as stiff with gold as the vestments of the padre.”

Ysabel looked up as a man rode past.  His bold profile and thin face were passionate and severe; his dark blue eyes were full of power.  Such a face was rare among the languid shallow men of her race.

“He rides with General Castro,” whispered Benicia Ortega.  “He stays with him.  We shall see him at the ball to-night.”

As Don Vicente passed Ysabel their eyes met for a moment.  His opened suddenly with a bold eager flash, his arched nostrils twitching.  The colour left her face, and her eyes dropped heavily.