No two men could have contrasted more sharply than José Castro and
Pio Pico--with the exception of Alvarado the most famous men of their
country. The gold trimmings of the general's uniform were his only
jewels. His hair and beard--the latter worn _à la Basca_, a narrow strip
curving from upper lip to ear--were as black as Pio Pico's once had
been. The handsomest man in California, he had less consciousness than
the least of the caballeros. His deep gray eyes were luminous with
enthusiasm; his nose was sharp and bold; his firm sensitive mouth was
cut above a resolute chin. He looked what he was, the ardent patriot of
a doomed cause.

"Señorita," he said, as he led Ysabel out to the sweet monotonous music
of the contradanza, "did you see the caballero who rode with me to-day?"

A red light rose to Ysabel's cheek. "Which one, commandante? Many rode
with you."

"I mean him who rode at my right, the winner of the races, Vicente, son
of my old friend Juan Bautista de la Vega y Arillaga, of Los Angeles."

"It may be. I think I saw a strange face."

"He saw yours, Doña Ysabel, and is looking upon you now from the
corridor without, although the fog is heavy about him. Cannot you see
him--that dark shadow by the pillar?"

Ysabel never went through the graceful evolutions of the contradanza
as she did that night. Her supple slender body curved and swayed and
glided; her round arms were like lazy snakes uncoiling; her exquisitely