A girl rose from a sofa and came slowly forward to the corridor.
Discontent marred her face as she gave her hand to the Governor to
kiss, and looked down upon the brilliant town. The Señorita Doña Ysabel
Herrera was poor. Were it not for her uncle she would not have where to
lay her stately head--and she was La Favorita of Monterey, the proudest
beauty in California! Her father had gambled away his last acre, his
horse, his saddle, the serape off his back; then sent his motherless
girl to his brother, and buried himself in Mexico. Don Antonio took the
child to his heart, and sent for a widowed cousin to be her dueña. He
bought her beautiful garments from the ships that touched the port, but
had no inclination to gratify her famous longing to hang ropes of pearls
in her soft black hair, to wind them about her white neck, and band them
above her green resplendent eyes.

"Unbend thy brows," said Pio Pico. "Wrinkles were not made for youth."

Ysabel moved her brows apart, but the clouds still lay in her eyes.

"Thou dost not ask of the races, O thou indifferent one! What is the
trouble, my Ysabel? Will no one bring the pearls? The loveliest girl in
all the Californias has said, 'I will wed no man who does not bring me
a lapful of pearls,' and no one has filled the front of that pretty
flowered gown. But have reason, niña. Remember that our Alta California
has no pearls on its shores, and that even the pearl fisheries of the
terrible lower country are almost worn out. Will nothing less content
thee?"

"No, señor."