A waltz began, and he took her in his arms without asking her indulgence, and regardless of the indignation of the mob of men about her.  Ysabel, whose being was filled with tumult, lay passive as he held her closer than man had ever dared before.

“I love you,” he said, in his harsh voice.  “I wish you for my wife.  At once.  When I saw you to-day standing with a hundred other beautiful women, I said:  ‘She is the fairest of them all.  I shall have her.’  And I read the future in”—­he suddenly dropped the formal “you”—­“in thine eyes, carina.  Thy soul sprang to mine.  Thy heart is locked in my heart closer, closer than my arms are holding thee now.”

The strength of his embrace was violent for a moment; but Ysabel might have been cut from marble.  Her body had lost its swaying grace; it was almost rigid.  She did not lift her eyes.  But De la Vega was not discouraged.

The music finished, and Ysabel was at once surrounded by a determined retinue.  This intruding Southerner was welcome to the honours of the race-field, but the Star of Monterey was not for him.  He smiled as he saw the menace of their eyes.

“I would have her,” he thought, “if they were a regiment of Castros—­which they are not.”  But he had not armed himself against diplomacy.

“Senor Don Vicente de la Vega y Arillaga,” said Don Guido Cabanares, who had been selected as spokesman, “perhaps you have not learned during your brief visit to our capital that the Senorita Dona Ysabel Herrera, La Favorita of Alta California, has sworn by the Holy Virgin, by the blessed Junipero Serra, that she will wed no man who does not bring her a lapful of pearls.  Can you find those pearls on the sands of the South, Don Vicente?  For, by the holy cross of God, you cannot have her without them!”

For a moment De la Vega was disconcerted.

“Is this true?” he demanded, turning to Ysabel.

“What, senor?” she asked vaguely.  She had not listened to the words of her protesting admirer.

A sneer bent his mouth.  “That you have put a price upon yourself?  That the man who ardently wishes to be your husband, who has even won your love, must first hang you with pearls like—­” He stopped suddenly, the blood burning his dark face, his eyes opening with an expression of horrified hope.  “Tell me!  Tell me!” he exclaimed.  “Is this true?”

For the first time since she had spoken with him Ysabel was herself.  She crossed her arms and tapped her elbows with her pointed fingers.

“Yes,” she said, “it is true.”  She raised her eyes to his and regarded him steadily.  They looked like green pools frozen in a marble wall.

The harp, the flute, the guitar, combined again, and once more he swung her from a furious circle.  But he was safe; General Castro had joined it.  He waltzed her down the long room, through one adjoining, then into another, and, indifferent to the iron conventions of his race, closed the door behind them.  They were in the sleeping-room of Dona Modeste.  The bed with its rich satin coverlet, the bare floor, the simple furniture, were in semi-darkness; only on the altar in the corner were candles burning.  Above it hung paintings of saints, finely executed by Mexican hands; an ebony cross spread its black arms against the white wall; the candles flared to a golden Christ.  He caught her hands and led her over to the altar.