bit stiff with
dirt, smelling, reeling with fatigue, stood amongst them. His eyes were
deep in his ashen face. They rolled about the room until they met De la
Vega's.

General Castro came hastily forward. "What does this mean?" he asked.
"What do you wish?"

The friar raised his arm, and pointed his shaking finger at De la Vega.

"Kill him!" he said, in a loud hoarse whisper. "He has desecrated the
Mother of God!"

Every caballero in the room turned upon De la Vega with furious
satisfaction. Ysabel had quickened their blood, and they were willing
to cool it in vengeance on the man of whom they still were jealous, and
whom they suspected of having brought the wondrous pearls which covered
their Favorita to-night.

"What? What?" they cried eagerly. "Has he done this thing?"

"He has robbed the Church. He has stripped the Blessed Virgin of her
jewels. He--has--murdered--a--priest of the Holy Catholic Church."

Horror stayed them for a moment, and then they rushed at De la Vega. "He
does not deny it!" they cried. "Is it true? Is it true?" and they surged
about him hot with menace.

"It is quite true," said De la Vega, coldly. "I plundered the shrine of
Loreto and murdered its priest."

The women panted and gasped; for a moment even the men were stunned,
and in that moment an ominous sound mingled with the roar of the surf.
Before the respite was over Ysabel had reached his side.

"He did it for me!" she cried, in her clear triumphant voice. "For
me! And although you kill us both, I am the proudest woman in all the
Californias, and I love him."

"Good!" cried Castro, and he placed himself before them. "Stand back,
every one of you. What? are you barbarians, Indians, that you would do
violence to a guest in your town? What if he has committed a crime? Is
he not one of you, then, that you offer him blood instead of protection?
Where is your pride of caste? your _hospitality_? Oh, perfidy! Fall
back, and leave the guest of your capital to those who are compelled to
judge him."

The caballeros shrank back, sullen but abashed. He had touched the quick
of their pride.

"Never mind!" cried the friar. "You cannot protect him from _that_.
Listen!"

Had the bay risen about the Custom-house?

"What is that?" demanded Castro, sharply.

"The poor of Monterey; those who love their Cross better than the
aristocrats love their caste. They know."

De la Vega caught Ysabel in his arms and dashed across the room and
cor