Nina rode between Mr. McLane and Captain Hastings, and kept them laughing heartily. The day had passed and Thorpe had not had a word with her. He rode last, with Miss Hathaway, glad of her society; for she never expected a man to talk when he was not in the mood. Scarcely a word passed between them; once or twice he had an uncomfortable impression that her large cold inscrutable eyes were watching him intently.
They rode through the heavy dusk of a Californian night, perfume and the odd abrupt sounds of the New World about them. The landscape took new form in the shadows. The stunted brush seemed to crouch and quiver, ready to spring. The owl hooted across the sandy waste; and coyotes yapped dismally. Many of the party were silent; but Nina’s fresh spontaneous laugh rang out every few moments, striking an incongruous note. California itself was a mystery in that hour and did not consort with the lighter mood of woman.
Suddenly they looked down upon the Mission. The church was dark, but the long wing beside it flared with light. They rode rapidly down the hill and across the valley. As they approached, they saw Don Tiburcio standing on the corridor before one of the open doors. He wore black silk short clothes and a lace shirt, his hair tied back with a ribbon. Diamonds blazed among his ruffles and on his long white hands.
As he was making one of his long and stately speeches, Miss Hathaway laid her hand on Thorpe’s arm.
“Take my advice,” she said, in her cool even tones. “Do not go near Nina to-night. Let her alone. I think she wishes it.”
Thorpe made no reply. Miss Hathaway might as well have asked him to hold his breath until the entertainment was over.
The ladies went at once to a large room set aside for their use and donned their evening frocks. These frocks were very simple for the most part, organdie or swiss, and they were adjusted casually before the solitary mirror.
Nina’s gown was of white nainsook ruffled to the waist with lace, and very full. The low cut bodice was gathered into the belt like a child’s. Sometime since a local goldsmith of much cunning had, out of a bar of native gold, fashioned for her three flexible serpents. She wore one through her hair, one on her left arm, and a heavier one about her waist.
“Dios de mi alma, Nina,” exclaimed Mrs. Earle; “you look like an imp to-night. What is the matter with you? Your eyes look—look—I hardly know what you do look like.”