spot so
consecrated to him--the summit of the hill--where, just twenty-four
hours ago, he spoke love's last appeal to Carmen Montijo. For the
_Crusader_ has passed out through the Golden Gate, and is now beating
down the coast of the Pacific.

Cadwallader's eyes, with equal interest, are turned upon the same spot,
and for a time both are silent, absorbed in sweet reflections; recalling
all that had occurred in a scene whose slightest incident neither can
ever forgot.

Only when the land looms low, and the outlines of the San Bruno
Mountains begin to blend with the purpling sky, does a shadow again show
itself on the countenances of the young officers. But now it is
different, no longer expressing chagrin, nor the rancour of jealousy;
but doubt, apprehension, fear, for the loved ones left behind. Still
the cloud has a silver lining, and that is--Harry Blew.

CHAPTER FORTY TWO.

A SOLEMN COMPACT.

A Cottage of the old Californian kind--in other words, a _rancho_; one
of the humblest of these humble dwellings--the homes of the
Spanish-American poor. It is a mere hut, thatched with a species of
sea-shore grass, the "broombent" seen growing in the sand-dunes near by.
For it is by the sea, or within sight of it; inconspicuously placed by
reason of rugged rocks, that cluster around, and soar up behind, forming
a background in keeping with the rude architectural style of the
dwelling. From the land side it is only approachable by devious and
difficult paths, known but to a few familiar friends of its owner.

From the shore, equally difficult, for the little cove leading up to it
would not have depth sufficient to permit the passage of a boat, but for
a tiny stream trickling seaward, which has furrowed out a channel in the
sand. That by this boats can enter the cove is evident from one being
seen moored near its inner end, in front of, and not far from, the
hovel. As it is a craft of the kind generally used by Californian
fishermen--more especially those who chase the fur-seal--it may be
deduced that the owner of the hut is a seal-hunter.

This is his profession reputedly; though there are some who ascribe to
him callings of a different kind; among others, insinuating that he
occasionally does business as a _contrabandista_.

Whether true or not, Rafael Rocas--for he is the owner of the hut--is
not the man to trouble himself about denying it. He would scarce
consider smuggling an aspersion on his character