"Of whom do you speak?" asked De la Vega, who had rejoined them.

"Of Ysabel Herrera, La Favorita of Monterey," answered Pio Pico. "The
most beautiful woman in the Californias, since Chonita Iturbi y Moncada,
my Vicente. It is at her uncle's that I stay. You have heard me speak of
my old friend; and surely you have heard of her."

"Ay!" said De la Vega. "I have heard of her."

"Viva El Rayo!"

"Ay, the ugly brute!"

"What name? Vitriolo? Mother of God! Diablo or Demonio would suit him
better. He looks as if he had been bred in hell. He will not stand the
quirto; and El Rayo is more lightly built. We shall beat by a dozen
lengths."

The two vaqueros who were to ride the horses had stripped to their soft
linen shirts and black velvet trousers, cast aside their sombreros, and
bound their heads with tightly knotted handkerchiefs. Their spurs were
fastened to bare brown heels; the cruel quirto was in the hand of each;
they rode barebacked, winding their wiry legs in and out of a horse-hair
rope encircling the body of the animal. As they slowly passed the crowd
on their way to the starting-point at the lower end of the field, and
listened to the rattling fire of wagers and comments, they looked
defiant, and alive to the importance of the coming event.

El Rayo shone like burnished copper, his silver mane and tail glittering
as if powdered with diamond-dust. He was long and graceful of body, thin