She gave a little cry of agony and pleasure.  He was standing by the gates of the corral whilst the vaqueros rounded up the cattle he had bought.  His arms were folded, his head hung forward.  As he heard her cry, he lifted his face, and Elena saw the tears in his eyes.  For the moment they gazed at each other, those lovers of California’s long-ago, while the very atmosphere quivering between them seemed a palpable barrier.  Elena flung out her arms with a sudden passionate gesture; he gave a hoarse cry, and paced up and down like a race-horse curbed with a Spanish bit.  How to have one last word with her?  If she were behind the walls of the fort of Monterey it would be as easy.  He dared not speak from where he was.  Already the horses were at the door to carry the eager company to a fight between a bull and a bear.  But he could write a note if only he had the materials.  It was useless to return to his room, for Joaquin was there; and he hoped never to see that library again.  But was there ever a lover in whom necessity did not develop the genius of invention?  Dario flashed upward a glance of hope, then took from his pocket a slip of the rice-paper used for making cigaritos.  He burnt a match, and with the charred stump scrawled a few lines.

“Elena!  Mine!  Star of my life!  My sweet!  Beautiful and idolized.  Farewell!  Farewell, my darling!  My heart is sad.  God be with thee.

“DARIO.”

He wrapped the paper about a stone, and tied it with a wisp of grass.  With a sudden flexile turn of a wrist that had thrown many a reata, he flung it straight through the open window.  Elena read the meaningless phrases, then fell insensible to the floor.

IX

It was the custom of Dona Jacoba personally to oversee her entire establishment every day, and she always went at a different hour, that laziness might never feel sure of her back.  To-day she visited the rancheria immediately after dinner, and looked through every hut with her piercing eyes.  If the children were dirty, she peremptorily ordered their stout mammas to put them into the clean clothes which her bounty had provided.  If a bed was unmade, she boxed the ears of the owner and sent her spinning across the room to her task.  But she found little to scold about; her discipline was too rigid.  When she was satisfied that the huts were in order, she went down to the great stone tubs sunken in the ground, where the women were washing in the heavy shade of the willows.  In their calico gowns they made bright bits of colour against the drooping green of the trees.

“Maria,” she cried sharply, “thou art wringing that fine linen too harshly.  Dost thou wish to break in pieces the bridal clothes of thy senorita?  Be careful, or I will lay the whip across thy shoulders.”