rms now
lolling in the lace of her gown, now lifted to graceful sweep and
curve. The caballeros shouted their appreciation, flinging gold and
silver at her feet; never had El Son been given with such variations
before. Never did I see greater enthusiasm until the night which
culminated the tragedy of Ysabel Herrera. Estenega stood enraptured,
watching every motion of her body, every expression of her face.
The blood blazed in her cheeks, her eyes were like green stars and
sparkled wickedly. The cold curves of her statuesque mouth were warm
and soft, her chin was saucily uplifted, her heavy waving hair fell
over her shoulders to her knees, a glittering veil. Where had The
Doomswoman, the proud daughter of the Iturbi y Moncadas, gone?

The girls were a little frightened: this was not the Son to which they
were accustomed. The young matrons frowned. The old people exclaimed,
"Caramba!" "Mother of God!" "Holy Mary!" I was aghast; well as I knew
her, this was a piece of audacity for which I was unprepared.

As the dance went on and she grew more and more like an untamed
wood-nymph, even the caballeros became vaguely uneasy, hotly as they
admired the beautiful wild thing enchaining their gaze. I looked again
at Estenega and knew that his heart beat in passionate sympathy.

"I have found _her_," he murmured, exultantly. "She is California,
magnificent, audacious, incomprehensible, a creature of storms and
convulsions and impregnable calm; the germs of all good and all bad in
her; a woman sublimated. Every husk of tradition has fallen from her."

Once, as she passed Estenega, her eyes met his. They lit with a glance
of recognition, then the lids drooped and she floated on. He left the
room; and when he returned she sat on a window-seat, surrounded by
caballeros, as calm and as pale as when he had commanded her to dance.
He did not approach her, but, joined me at the upper end of the sala,
where I stood with Alvarado, the Castros, Don Thomas Larkin, the
United States Consul, and a half-dozen others. We were discussing
Chonita's interpretation of El Son.

"That was a strange outbreak for a Spanish girl," said Senor Larkin.

"She is Chonita Iturbi y Moncada," said Castro, severely. "She is like
no other woman, and what she does is right."

The consul bowed. "True, coronel. I have seen no one here like Dona
Chonita. There is a delicious uniformity about the Californian women:
so reserved, shrinking yet dignified, ever on the