Love needed no kindling in the heart of the Californian.

II

The people of Monterey danced every night of their lives, and went nowhere so promptly as to the great sala of Dona Modeste Castro, their leader of fashion, whose gowns were made for her in the city of Mexico.

Ysabel envied her bitterly.  Not because the Dona Modeste’s skin was whiter than her own, for it could not be, nor her eyes greener, for they were not; but because her jewels were richer than Pio Pico’s, and upon all grand occasions a string of wonderful pearls gleamed in her storm-black hair.  But one feminine compensation had Ysabel:  she was taller; Dona Modeste’s slight elegant figure lacked Ysabel’s graceful inches, and perhaps she too felt a pang sometimes as the girl undulated above her like a snake about to strike.

At the fashionable hour of ten Monterey was gathered for the dance.  All the men except the officers wore black velvet or broadcloth coats and white trousers.  All the women wore white, the waist long and pointed, the skirt full.  Ysabel’s gown was of embroidered crepe.  Her hair was coiled about her head, and held by a tortoise comb framed with a narrow band of gold.  Pio Pico, splendid with stars and crescents and rings and pins, led her in, and with his unique ugliness enhanced her beauty.

She glanced eagerly about the room whilst replying absently to the caballeros who surrounded her.  Don Vicente de la Vega was not there.  The thick circle about her parted, and General Castro bent over her hand, begging the honour of the contradanza.  She sighed, and for the moment forgot the Southerner who had flashed and gone like the beginning of a dream.  Here was a man—­the only man of her knowledge whom she could have loved, and who would have found her those pearls.  Californians had so little ambition!  Then she gave a light audacious laugh.  Governor Pico was shaking hands cordially with General Castro, the man he hated best in California.

No two men could have contrasted more sharply than Jose Castro and Pio Pico—­with the exception of Alvarado the most famous men of their country.  The gold trimmings of the general’s uniform were his only jewels.  His hair and beard—­the latter worn a la Basca, a narrow strip curving from upper lip to ear—­were as black as Pio Pico’s once had been.  The handsomest man in California, he had less consciousness than the least of the caballeros.  His deep gray eyes were luminous with enthusiasm; his nose was sharp and bold; his firm sensitive mouth was cut above a resolute chin.  He looked what he was, the ardent patriot of a doomed cause.

“Senorita,” he said, as he led Ysabel out to the sweet monotonous music of the contradanza, “did you see the caballero who rode with me to-day?”

A red light rose to Ysabel’s cheek.  “Which one, commandante?  Many rode with you.”

“I mean him who rode at my right, the winner of the races, Vicente, son of my old friend Juan Bautista de la Vega y Arillaga, of Los Angeles.”