CHAPTER FORTY SIX.

"ADIOS CALIFORNIA!"

A bright sun rises over San Francisco, in all likelihood the last Don
Gregorio Montijo will ever witness in California. For just as the orb
of day shows its disc above the dome-shaped _silhouette_ of Monte
Diablo, flinging its golden shimmer across the bay, a boat leaves the
town-pier, bearing him and his towards the Chilian vessel, whose signals
for sailing are out.

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 Inez 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 _Cond