Muskets crashed, as they crossed the street; the multitude shouted congratulations; the hills above them lived in medley of reiterated acclaimings of good will.
At the wedding breakfast words dripped like honey from the mouth of Señor Alvarado, as he spoke of the lovely bride. Grave Castro smiled approbation; the clever Carillo applauded; his ally, Don Pio Pico, cried aloud, "Bon! Bon! Buena!" Even Alvarado's saturnine enemy, the half-Sicilian, Di Vestro, clapped his hands, as the señor, the honey-drip becoming torrential eloquence, said: "For the kiss of such a bride as the Señora Morando, gladly would I again drive that Mexican usurper, Micheltorena, from California soil; yes, and every follower he has!"
"Will you! Will you!" exclaimed the young wife, blushing at mention of the new name. Stepping up, she kissed squarely the Señor Alvarado, her mother's brother.
"A challenge! A challenge!" from the guests. "The former governor at last has found a nut he cannot crack. Aha! Alvarado, thy kinswoman is ever quicker in retort than thou."
The tall politician bowed gently to the Señora Doña Carmelita.
"If you draw them hither, mi querida, no power of mine could budge them a single inch."
"Well said! Well said!"
Later came the afternoon barbecue in the foothills. Dozens of beeves were roasting in deep pits, on live-coals, the outdoor sports of early California first whetting the appetite for the feast.
Bonfire blazed red against crag and forest that night, as peon and peona continued the repast, and danced the fandango to the music of guitar, and the surprised cries of catamount and wolf.
At the hacienda house the Señor and Señora Morando danced in the contra danza amidst the plaudits of the lookers-on.