mantillas and rebosos, as the family carretas would
hold. The square of the Presidio was crowded
from morning until midnight with the spirited
horses of the country, prancing impatiently under
the heavy Mexican saddle, heavier with silver, made
a trifle more endurable by the blanket of velvet or
cloth. No Californian walked a dozen rods when
he had a horse to carry him.

But the horses were not always champing in the
square. There was more than one bull-bear fight,
and twice a week at least they carried their owners
to the hills of the Mission ranch, or the rocky cliffs
and gorges above Yerba Buena, the Indian servants
following with great baskets of luncheon, perhaps
roasting an ox whole in a trench. This the Cali-
fornians called barbecue and the picnic merienda.

There was dancing day and night, the tinkling of
guitars, flirting of fans. Rezanov vowed he would
not have believed there were so many fans and
guitars in the world, and suddenly remembered he
had never seen Concha with either. The lady of
his choice reigned supreme. Many had taken the
long blistering journey for no other purpose than
to see the famous beauty and her Russian; the en-
gagement was as well known as if cried from the
Mission top. The girls were surprised and de-
lighted to find Concha sweet rather than proud and
envied her with amiable enthusiasm. The cabal-