"Dios de mi alma! Thou hast ambition. No woman has had more offered her
than thou. But thou art worthy of the most that man could give. Had I
not a wife myself, I believe I should throw my jewels and my ugly old
head at thy little feet."

Ysabel glanced with some envy at the magnificent jewels with which the
Governor of the Californias was hung, but did not covet the owner. An
uglier man than Pio Pico rarely had entered this world. The upper lip of
his enormous mouth dipped at the middle; the broad thick underlip hung
down with its own weight. The nose was big and coarse, although
there was a certain spirited suggestion in the cavernous nostrils.
Intelligence and reflectiveness were also in his little eyes, and they
were far apart. A small white mustache grew above his mouth; about his
chin, from ear to ear, was a short stubby beard, whiter by contrast with
his copper-coloured skin. He looked much like an intellectual bear.

And Ysabel? In truth, she had reason for her pride. Her black hair,
unblemished by gloss or tinge of blue, fell waving to her feet.
California, haughty, passionate, restless, pleasure-loving, looked from
her dark green eyes; the soft black lashes dropped quickly when they
became too expressive. Her full mouth was deeply red, but only a faint
pink lay in her white cheeks; the nose curved at bridge and nostrils.
About her low shoulders she held a blue reboso, the finger-tips of each
slim hand resting on the opposite elbow. She held her head a little
back, and Pio Pico laughed as he looked at her.

"Dios!" he said, "but thou might be an Estenega or an Iturbi y Moncada.
Surely that lofty head better suits old Spain than the republic of
Mexico. Draw the reboso about thy head now, and let us go down. They
expect thee."