e rest of the evening. Before he left, however,
I had a word with him alone, and warned him not to let the princess
stray beyond the walls of the fortress. That same night I sent a
courier to General Vallejo--who, fortunately, was at Sonoma--bidding
him watch Solano. And, sure enough--the day I left for Monterey
the Princess Helene was in hysterics, Rotscheff was swearing like a
madman, and a soldier was at every carronade: word had just come from
General Vallejo that he had that morning intercepted Solano in his
triumphant march, at the head of six tribes, upon Fort Ross, and sent
him flying back to his mountain-top in disorder and bitterness of
spirit."

"That is very interesting!" cried Chonita. "I like that. What an
experience those Russians have had! That terrible tragedy!--Ah, I
remember, it was you who were to have aided Natalie Ivanhoff in her
escape--"

"Hush!" said Estenega. "Do not speak of that. Here we are. At your
service, senorita." He sprang to the whaleboned pavement in front of
the little church facing the blue bay and surrounded by the gray ruins
of the old Presidio, and lifted her down.

Chonita recalled, and angry with herself for having been beguiled
by her enemy, took the infant from the nurse's arms and carried it
fearfully up the aisle. Estenega, walking beside her, regarded her
meditatively.

"What is she?" he thought, "this Californian woman with her hair of
gold and her unmistakable intellect, her marble face crossed now and
again by the animation of the clever American woman? What an
anomaly to find on the shores of the Pacific! All I had heard of The
Doomswoman, The Golden Senorita, gave me no idea of this. What a pity
that our houses are at war! She is not maternal, at all events; I
never saw a baby held so awkwardly. What a poise of head! She looks
better fitted for tragedy than for this little comedy of life in the
Californias. A sovereignty would suit her,--were it not for her eyes.
They are not quite so calm and just and inexorable as the rest of
her face. She would not even make a good household tyrant, like Dona
Jacoba Duncan. Unquestionably she is religious, and swaddled in all
the traditions of her race; but her eyes,--they are at odds with all
the rest of her. They are not lovely eyes; they lack softness and
languor and tractability; their expression changes too often, and they
mirror too much intelligence for loveliness, but they never will be
old eyes, and they never will