and in that moment an ominous sound mingled with the roar of the surf.
Before the respite was over Ysabel had reached his side.

"He did it for me!" she cried, in her clear triumphant voice. "For
me! And although you kill us both, I am the proudest woman in all the
Californias, and I love him."

"Good!" cried Castro, and he placed himself before them. "Stand back,
every one of you. What? are you barbarians, Indians, that you would do
violence to a guest in your town? What if he has committed a crime? Is
he not one of you, then, that you offer him blood instead of protection?
Where is your pride of caste? your _hospitality_? Oh, perfidy! Fall
back, and leave the guest of your capital to those who are compelled to
judge him."

The caballeros shrank back, sullen but abashed. He had touched the quick
of their pride.

"Never mind!" cried the friar. "You cannot protect him from _that_.
Listen!"

Had the bay risen about the Custom-house?

"What is that?" demanded Castro, sharply.

"The poor of Monterey; those who love their Cross better than the
aristocrats love their caste. They know."

De la Vega caught Ysabel in his arms and dashed across the room and
corridor. His knife cut a long rift in the canvas, and in a moment they