"Impossible, my lady," remonstrated Higuera. "My house and all in it are at your disposal. Rest to-day. Last night was a gay one, but a merry night means a weary morning. To-morrow, or the day after, you can continue your way. A proper guard will attend you. Besides, your arm may require further treatment. We have an Indian woman on the hacienda who is only less skillful than the Captain," bowing to Morando.
"Thank you, amigos. My sister rests at the Calderon hacienda, near San José pueblo. I can easily reach there in an hour. The scratch on my arm is nothing. I am ashamed of having shown weakness over it. Misericordia! am I sugar that I melt if a cupful of water reaches me?"
Despite all protestations she insisted on starting forth.
"Take a carreta, my dear heart," urged Señora Higuera. "Come, we'll fill the body of the vehicle with blankets and have all as soft as down for you. What differs an hour more or less in the journey if you can be more comfortable? Let me make ready for you."
The señora would not listen to it. She mounted her horse gracefully, despite her bandaged arm, waved adios to the Higueras, and set out toward San José attended by Captain Morando.
"Be sure to stop if you feel weak," called Señora Higuera. "A peon will make his house yours, as well will any ranchero."
"Never fear, good friends; I have strength and to spare for the journey."
The rest of the merrymakers were well ahead. The señora and the Captain rode alone over a virgin meadow. Mountain and valley smiled. The sun, giving promise of a perfect day, crystallized his light in myriad dewdrops hanging on flower petal and grass leaf. The morning breeze carried the sweet voices of the hill blooms as they sang in fragrance. Mingled with it was the pungent tang of wild mustard bursting into gold. Great stretches of wild oats eddied and billowed away, an emerald sea meeting the outposts of the coast range; or, dropping across the valley, lost itself in the misty, opalescent sky line. High aloft the lark was warbling his joy of living. The blackbird in the meadows trilled love songs to his mate.
The man and woman turned their horses and looked along the way they had come. The San Francisco Bay reached in silvery arc to the horizon. The great white buildings of the Mendoza hacienda, stippled with the gray of peon dwellings, rested against the hills. Stray cattle and horses made their way body-deep in the luxuriant grass-growth, while the mountains echoed the bleating of the Mission's sheep. It was a picture of pastoral California, rich and splendid.
The lady showed no trace of her accident of an hour before. Color was in her face and animation in her tones as she said: "Captain Morando, let us look our fill on this scene. The future will see a panorama here less wild, less beautiful, perhaps, but of greater usefulness." She turned her horse again southward.