It was when coming back to the mines, after a trip to Monterey, that the
Girl first met him. It happened, too, just at a time when her mind was
ripe to receive a lasting impression. But of all this the boys of Cloudy
Mountain Camp heard not a word, needless to say, until long afterwards.

Lolling back on the rear seat of the stage, her eyes half closed,--the
sole passenger now, and with the seat in front piled high with boxes
and baskets containing _rebozos_, silken souvenirs, and other finery
purchased in the shops of the old town,--the Girl was mentally reviewing
and dreaming of the delights of her week's visit there,--a visit that
had been a revelation to one whose sole experience of the world had
until now been derived from life in a rough mining camp. Before her
half-closed eyes still shimmered a vista of strange, exotic scenes and
people, the thronging crowds of carnivals and fêtes; the Mexican girls
swaying through the movements of the fandango to the music of guitars
and castanets; the great _rodeo_ with its hundreds of _vaqueros_, which
was held at one of the ranchos just outside the town; and, lastly, and
most vividly of all, the never-to-be-forgotten thrill of her first
bull-fight.

Still ringing in her ears was the piercing note of the bugle which
instantly silenced the expectant throng; the hoarse roar that greeted
the entrance of the bull, and the thunder of his hoofs when he made his
first mad charge. She saw again, with marvellous fidelity, the whole
colour-scheme just before the death of the big, brave beast: the huge
arena in its unrivalled setting of mountain, sea and sky; the eager
multitude, tense with expectancy; the silver-mounted bridles and
trappings of the horses; the many-hued capes of the _capadors_; the
gaily-dressed _banderilleros_, poising their beribboned barbs; the red
flag and long, slender, flashing sword of the cool and ever watchful