The breathless intensity of the spectators had burst. They had begun to
click their teeth, to mutter hoarsely, then to shout, to gesticulate,
to shake their fists in each other's face, to push and scramble for a
better view.

"Holy God!" cried Pio Pico, carried out of himself, "the South is lost!
Vitriolo the magnificent! Ah, who would have thought? The black by the
gold! Ay! What! No! Holy Mary! Holy God!--"

Six strides more and the race is over. With the bark of a coyote the
vaquero of the South leans forward over Vitriolo's neck. The big black
responds like a creature of reason. Down comes the quirto once--only
once. He fairly lifts his horse ahead and shoots into victory, winner by
a neck. The South has vanquished the North.

The crowd yelled and shouted until it was exhausted. But even Cabañares
made no further demonstration toward De la Vega. Not only was he weary
and depressed, but the victory had been nobly won.

It grew late, and they rode to the town, caballeros pushing as close to
doñas as they dared, dueñas in close attendance, one theme on the lips
of all. Anger gave place to respect; moreover, De la Vega was the guest
of General Castro, the best-beloved man in California. They were willing
to extend the hand of friendship; but he rode last, between the General
and Doña Modeste, and seemed to care as little for their good will as
for their ill.

Pio Pico rode ahead, and as the cavalcade entered the town he broke from
it and ascended the hill to carry the news to Ysabel Herrera.