"Fairbanks is not keen on this prize, Captain," moving her head thoughtfully.
Señora Barcelo came to her sister's side. "Silvia, look through this spyglass—over that ledge, then to where that thin scroll of fog dips down to the water."
Conversation ceased, and a dozen glasses scanned the spot.
A strip of white rose into sight, glanced in the sun, darkened, then gleamed like a sunflash on ice. To the left was another, then another. Suddenly, four more projected into plain view on the right.
"The fleet! The fleet!" chorused every side.
Breezes of late forenoon freshened over the harbor. Headland and sky line cleared of feathery mist.
The seven ships, every sail set, hove into full sight.
Captain Farquharson, resting his hands on a parapet, scrutinized eagerly the nearing men-of-war. His wish framed a thought which he believed Fairbanks's coming vitalized.
Thirty years ago Spain's nerveless hand fell from the Californias, leaving them to Mexico. Mexico's hold, feeble always, year by year had loosened. To-day would see the end.
His daydream grew.