Monterey, rising to her pine-spiked hills, swept like a crescent moon
about the sapphire bay. The surf roared and fought the white sand hills
of the distant horn; on that nearest the town stood the fort, grim
and rude, but pulsating with military life, and alert for American
onslaught. In the valley the red-tiled white adobe houses studded a
little city which was a series of corners radiating from a central
irregular street. A few mansions were on the hillside to the right,
brush-crowded sand banks on the left; the perfect curve of hills, thick
with pine woods and dense green undergrowth, rose high above and around
all, a rampart of splendid symmetry.

"Ay! Ysabel! Ysabel!" cried the young people, as they swept down the
broad street. "Bring her to us, Excellency. Tell her she shall not know
until she comes down. We will tell her. Ay! poor Guido!"

The Governor turned and waved his hand, then continued the ascent of the
hill, toward a long low house which showed no sign of life.

He alighted and glanced into a room opening upon the corridor which
traversed the front. The room was large and dimly lighted by deeply set
windows. The floor was bare, the furniture of horse-hair; saints and
family portraits adorned the white walls; on a chair lay a guitar;
it was a typical Californian sala of that day. The ships brought few
luxuries, beyond raiment and jewels, to even the wealthy of that
isolated country.

"Ysabel," called the Governor, "where art thou? Come down to the town
and hear the fortune of the races. Alvarado Street streams like a comet.
Why should the Star of Monterey withhold her light?"