Others are in the boat; a large party of ladies and gentlemen, who accompany them to do a last handshaking on board. For, in quitting California, the ex-haciendado leaves many friends behind; among them, some who will pass sleepless hours thinking of Carmen Montijo; and others whose hearts will be sore as their thoughts turn to Iñez Alvarez.
It may be that none of those are present now; and better for them if not; since the most painful of all partings is that where the lover sees his sweetheart sail away, with the knowledge she cares neither to stay, nor come back.
The young ladies going off show but little sign of regret at leaving. They are hindered by remembrance of the last words spoken at another parting, now painfully recalled: “Hasta Cadiz!” The thought of that takes the sting out of this.
The boat reaches the ship, and swinging around, lies alongside.
Captain Lantanas stands by the gangway to receive his passengers, with their friends; while his first officer helps them up the man-ropes.
Among the ladies, Harry Blew distinguishes the two he is to have charge of, and with them is specially careful. As their soft-gloved fingers rest in his rough horny hand, he mentally registers a vow that it shall never fail them in the hour of need—if such there ever be.
On the cabin-table is spread a refection of the best; and around it the leave-takers assemble, the Chilian skipper doing the honours of his ship. And gracefully, for he is a gentleman.
Half-an-hour of merry-making, light chatter, enlivened by the popping of corks, and clinking of glasses; then ten minutes of converse more serious; after which hurried graspings of the hand and a general scattering towards the shore-boat, which soon after moves off amid exclamations of “Adios!” and “Bueno viage!” accompanied by the waving of hands, and white slender fingers saluting with tremulous motion—like the quiver of a kestrel’s wing—the fashion of the Spanish-american fair.
While the boat is being rowed back to the shore, the Condor puts out her canvas, and stands away towards the Golden Gate.
She is soon out of sight of the port; having entered the strait which gives access to the great land-locked estuary. But a wind blowing in from the west hinders her; and she is all the day tacking through the eight miles of narrow water which connects San Francisco Bay with the Pacific.