thyself. Who can know? Thy husband, weary with fighting, disgusted with
men, may cling the closer to thee, and with thee and thy children forget
the world in thy redwood forests or between the golden hills of thy
ranchos."

Doña Modeste shook her head. "Thou speakest the words of kindness, but
thou knowest José. Thou knowest that he would not be content to be as
other men. And, ay! Eustaquia, to think that it was opposite our own
dear home, our favourite home, that the American flag should first have
been raised! Opposite the home of José Castro!"

"To perdition with Frémont! Why did he, of all places, select San Juan
Bautista in which to hang up his American rag?"

"We never can live there again. The Gabilan Mountains would shut out the
very face of the sun from my husband."

"Do not weep, my Modeste; remember thy other beautiful ranchos. Dios de
mi alma!" she added with a flash of humour, "I revere San Juan Bautista
for your husband's sake, but I weep not that I shall visit you there no
more. Every day I think to hear that the shaking earth of that beautiful
valley has opened its jaws and swallowed every hill and adobe. God grant
that Frémont's hair stood up more than once. But go to bed, my friend.
Look, I will put you there." As if Doña Modeste were an infant, she
undressed and laid her between the linen sheets with their elaborate
drawn work, then made her drink a glass of angelica, folded and laid
away the satin coverlet, and left the house.

She walked up the plaza slowly, holding her head high. Monterey at that
time was infested by dogs, some of them very savage. Doña Eustaquia's