His olive-trees were neglected, and he spent the hours of their separations riding about the country with as little mercy on his horses as had he been a Californian born.  Sometimes, touched by the youthful fervor in his eyes, Delfina would melt perceptibly and ask him a question or two about himself, a dazzling favor in one who held that words were made to rust.  And once, when he lifted her off her horse under the heavy shadow of the trees, she gave him a glance which sent John far from her side, lest he make a fool of himself before the entire company.  Meanwhile he was not unhappy, in spite of the wildness in his blood, for he found the tremors of love and hope and fear as sweet as they were extraordinary.

One evening the climax came.

Delfina expressed a wish to see the lake on the summit of the solitary peak.  It had been discovered by the Indians, but was unknown to the luxurious Californians.  The company was assembled on the long corridor traversing the front of the Casa Ortega when Delfina startled Enrique by a command to take them all to the summit that night.

“But, senorita mia,” exclaimed Enrique, turning pale at the thought of offending his goddess, “there is no path.  I do not know the way.  And it is as steep as the tower of the Mission—­”

John came forward.  “There is an Indian trail,” he said, “and I have climbed it more than once.  But it is very narrow—­and steep, certainly.”

Delfina’s eyes, which had flashed disdain upon Enrique, smiled upon John.  “We go with you,” she announced; “to-night, for is moon.  And I ride in front with you.”

On the whole, thought Talbot, glancing towards the great peak whose wilderness was still unrifled, that was the happiest night of his life.  They outdistanced the others by a few yards, and they were obliged to ride so close that their shoulders touched.  It was the full of the moon, but in the forest there was only an occasional splash of silver.  They might have fancied themselves alone in primeval solitude had it not been for the gay voices behind them.  And never had Delfina been so enchanting.  She even talked a little, but her accomplished coquetry needed few words.  She could express more by a bend of the head or an inflection of the voice than other women could accomplish with vocabularies and brains.  John felt his head turning, but retained wisdom enough to wait for a moment when they should be quite alone.

The lake looked like a large reflection of the moon itself, for the black trees shadowed but the edge of the waters.  So great was the beauty of the scene that for a few moments the company gazed at it silently, and the mountain-top remained as still as during its centuries of loneliness.  But, finally, some one exclaimed, “Ay, yi!” and then rose a chorus, “Dios de mi alma!” “Dios de mi vida!” “Ay, California!  California!” “Ay, de mi, de mi, de mi!”