It was the beginning of the fifth day since the English fleet had sailed into Monterey, and out again.
Colonel Barcelo, with his soldiers, had marched away to Alisal, the colors from the fort and from the square emblazoned at the head of his column. After him rode the most of the wealth and fashion of the capital; that is, the most of those who had not preceded him.
The Colonel declared that he had satisfied honor, and that he would now retire in face of superior force.
Calmness of weather had succeeded wind-storm; still the fort slept peacefully beneath the empty flagpole, and the city plaza caught no shadow of foreign banner floating from the lofty staff in its center.
A horseman rode into town, made his way hurriedly through the plaza and crossed to a smaller plaza. He drew in sharply when he reached a house in which a light was showing through the railing of a veranda on the second story. He turned into the porte cochere. A vague figure was heaped across the threshold of the front door.
"Ola! Ola! Benito!" called the rider.
The figure resolved itself into a man wrapped in a blanket. Turtlelike his head emerged from its folds.
"Benito is with Colonel Barcelo. I am Alberto, peon of Señor Miramonte."
"Has Señora Valentino returned to the capital? Do you know?"
"The señora returned last night, señor."