"Señora, Fairbanks is really going to Monterey!"
She inclined her head.
"You are a wonderful woman. I have said this before. I say it now with double emphasis."
The three halted and watched the fleet.
"Come, let us ride on," from the señora, impatient at delay.
"Well," remarked Farquharson, "Barcelo has spiked the castle guns, and skedaddled. The Yankee's flagship is stuck in the mud, with her consort, the Cyane. I wonder what the deuce will keep that old dunderhead, Fairbanks out of Monterey now!"
CHAPTER XXVII
BUT YET A WOMAN
Fog everywhere. Congealed fog dripped from the roofs of Monterey. It fell, drop, drop, drop, in elongated pearls, on the slippery flag walks around the houses. Mountains of fog lay over the city, and slid in huge avalanches into the valleys. The harbor and near-about sea were filled with vapor-hills and crags. Fog blanketed the streets, blurred the trees, blotted the symmetry of buildings into bewildering shapelessness, and peopled the town with weird specters.
Occasionally a candle-point showed feebly in a corner lamp. Once in a while the dimness was accentuated by a lighted space streaking a yellowish gleam into the semiopaqueness—the candle of some early-rising Montereyan shining from his window. There were few of these lights to aid the passer-by; and there were few passers-by. Not only was the hour early for the people to be about, but the city itself was almost tenantless.