occasion. Beside it were three superbly-trapped horses.

The governor placed the swelling nurse in the carriage, then glanced
about him. "Where is Estenega?--and the Castros?" he asked.

"There are Don José and Doña Modeste Castro," said Chonita.

The crowd had parted suddenly, and two men and a woman rode toward the
governor. One of the men was tall and dark, and his somber military
attire became the stern sadness of his face. Castro was not
Comandante-general of the army at that time, but his bearing was as
imperious in that year of 1840 as when six years later the American
Occupation closed forever the career of a man made in derision
for greatness. At his right rode his wife, one of the most queenly
beauties of her time, small as she was in stature. Every woman's
eye turned to her at once; she was our leader of fashion, and we all
copied the gowns that came to her from the city of Mexico.

But Chonita gave no heed to the Castros. She fixed her cold direct
regard on the man who rode with them, and whom, she knew, must be
Diego Estenega, for he was their guest. She was curious to see this
enemy of her house, the political rival of her brother, the owner of
the voice which had given her the first thrill of her life. He was
dressed as plainly as Castro, and had none of the rich southern beauty
of the caballeros. His hair was cut short like Alvarado's, and his
face was thin and almost sallow. But the life that was in that face!
the passion, the intelligence, the kindness, the humor, the grim
determination! And what splendid vitality was in his tall thin figure,
and nervous activity under the repose of his carriage! I remember
I used to think in those days that Diego Estenega could conquer the