She lifted the scarf above her hair, and walked down the steep rutted
hill with the Governor, her flowered gown floating with a silken rustle
about her. In a few moments she was listening to the tale of the races.

"Ay, Ysabel! Dios de mi alma! What a day! A young señor from Los Angeles
won the race--almost all the races--the Señor Don Vicente de la Vega y
Arillaga. He has never been here, before. His horses! Madre de Dios!
They ran like hares. Poor Guido! Válgame Dios! Even thou wouldst have
been moved to pity. But he is so handsome! Look! Look! He comes now,
side by side with General Castro. Dios! his serape is as stiff with gold
as the vestments of the padre."

Ysabel looked up as a man rode past. His bold profile and thin face were
passionate and severe; his dark blue eyes were full of power. Such a
face was rare among the languid shallow men of her race.

"He rides with General Castro," whispered Benicia Ortega. "He stays with
him. We shall see him at the ball to-night."

As Don Vicente passed Ysabel their eyes met for a moment. His opened
suddenly with a bold eager flash, his arched nostrils twitching. The
colour left her face, and her eyes dropped heavily.

Love needed no kindling in the heart of the Californian.


II

The people of Monterey danced every night of their lives, and went