Francisca sat in her room surrounded by a dozen chattering girls.  The floor beneath the feet of the Californian heiress was bare, and the heavy furniture was of uncarved mahogany.  But a satin quilt covered the bed, lavish Spanish needlework draped chest and tables, and through the open window came the June sunshine and the sound of the splashing fountain.

Francisca was putting the last stitches in her wedding-gown, and the girls were helping, advising, and commenting.

“Art thou not frightened, Panchita,” demanded one of the girls, “to go away and live with a strange man?  Just think, thou hast seen him but ten times.”

“What of that?” asked Francisca, serenely, holding the rich corded silk at arm’s length, and half closing her eyes as she readjusted the deep flounce of Spanish lace.  “Remember, we shall ride and dance and play games together for a week with all of you, dear friends, before I go away with him.  I shall know him quite well by that time.  And did not my father know him when he was a little boy?  Surely, he cannot be a cruel man, or my father would not have chosen him for my husband.”

“I like the Americans and the Germans and the Russians,” said the girl who had spoken, “particularly the Americans.  But these English are so stern, so harsh sometimes.”

“What of that?” asked Francisca again.  “Am I not used to my father?”

She was a singular-looking girl, this compound of Scotch and Spanish.  Her face was cast in her father’s hard mould, and her frame was large and sturdy, but she had the black luxuriant hair of Spain, and much grace of gesture and expression.

“I would not marry an Englishman,” said a soft voice.

Francisca raised her eyebrows and glanced coldly at the speaker, a girl of perfect loveliness, who sat behind a table, her chin resting on her clasped hands.

“Thou wouldst marry whom our father told thee to marry, Elena,” said her sister, severely.  “What hast thou to say about it?”

“I will marry a Spaniard,” said Elena, rebelliously.  “A Spaniard, and no other.”

“Thou wilt do what?” asked a cold voice from the door.  The girls gave a little scream.  Elena turned pale, even Francisca’s hands twitched.

Dona Jacoba was an impressive figure as she stood in the doorway; a tall unbowed woman with a large face and powerful penetrating eyes.  A thin mouth covering white teeth separated the prominent nose and square chin.  A braid of thick black hair lay over her fine bust, and a black silk handkerchief made a turban for her lofty head.  She wore a skirt of heavy black silk and a shawl of Chinese crepe, one end thrown gracefully over her shoulder.

“What didst thou say?” she demanded again, a sneer on her lips.

Elena made no answer.  She stared through the window at the servants laying the table in the dining room on the other side of the court, her breath shortening as if the room had been exhausted of air.