"I knew that he would not kiss the boots of the Americans like the rest of our men! Oh, the cowards! I could almost say to-night that I like better the Americans than the men of my own race. They are Castros! I shall hate their flag so long as life is in me; but I cannot hate the brave men who fight for it. But my pain is light to thine. Thy heart is wrung, and I am sorry for thee."
"My day is over. Misfortune is upon us. Even if my husband's life is spared—ay! shall I ever see him again?—his position will be taken from him, for the Americans will conquer in the end. He will be Commandante-General of the army of the Californias no longer, but—holy God!—a ranchero, a caballero! He at whose back all California has galloped! Thou knowest his restless aspiring soul, Eustaquia, his ambition, his passionate love of California. Can there be happiness for such a man humbled to the dust—no future! no hope? Ay!"—she sprang to her feet with arms uplifted, her small slender form looking twice its height as it palpitated against the shadows, "I feel the bitterness of that spirit! I know how that great heart is torn. And he is alone!" She flung herself across Doña Eustaquia's knees and burst into violent sobbing.
Doña Eustaquia laid her strong arm about her friend, but her eyes were more angry than soft. "Weep no more, Modeste," she said. "Rather, arise and curse those who have flung a great man into the dust. But comfort 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 strong soul had little acquaintance with fear, and on her way to General Castro's house she had paid no attention to the snarling muzzles thrust against her gown. But suddenly a cadaverous creature sprang upon her with a savage yelp and would have caught her by the throat had not a heavy stick cracked its skull. A tall officer in the uniform of the United States navy raised his cap from iron-gray hair and looked at her with blue eyes as piercing as her own.
"You will pardon me, madam," he said, "if I insist upon attending you to your door. It is not safe for a woman to walk alone in the streets of Monterey at night."
Doña Eustaquia bent her head somewhat haughtily. "I thank you much, señor, for your kind rescue. I would not like, at all, to be eaten by the dogs. But I not like to trouble you to walk with me. I go only to the house of the Señor Larkin. It is there, at the end of the little street beyond the plaza."