became bankers, Senators, judges, merchant princes and promoters.

White linen replaced red flannel, bowie knives and revolvers were
sedately hidden beneath frock coats, the vicuna hat was a substitute for
slouch and sombrero.

But, under it all, the fierce, restless heart of San Francisco beat on
unchanged. In it stirred the daring, the lawless adventure, the feverish
ambition and the hair-trigger pride of argonauts from many lands. And in
it burned the deviltry, brutality, licentiousness and greed of criminal
elements freed from the curb of legal discipline.

David Broderick discussed it frequently with Alice Windham. He had
fallen into a habit of coming to the ranch when wearied by affairs of
state. He was a silent, brooding man, robbed somehow of his national
heritage, a sense of humor, for he had Irish blood. He was a man of
fire, implacable as an enemy, inalienable as a friend. And to Alice, as
she sat embroidering or knitting before the fire, he told many of his
dreams, his plans. She would nod her head sagely, giving him her eyes
now and then--eyes that were clear and calm with understanding.

Thus Alice came to know what boded for the town of San Francisco.
"Benito," she said one night, when Broderick had gone, "Benito, my
dearest, will you let me stir you--even if it wounds?" She came up
behind him quickly; put her arms about his neck and leaned her golden
head against his own. "We are sitting here too quietly ... while life
goes by," her tone was wistful. "You, especially, Benito. Outside teems
the world; the gorgeous, vibrant world of which our David speaks."

"What do you want me to do?" he asked, stirring restlessly, "go into
business? Make money--like Adrian?"

"No, no," she nestled closer. "It isn't money that I crave. We are happy
here. But"--she looked up at the portrait of Francisco Garvez, and
Benito followed her glance. "What would he have you do?"

"I promised him in thought," her husband said, "that I would help to
build the city he loved. It was a prophecy," his tone grew dreamy, "a
prophecy that he and his--the Garvez blood--should always stir in San
Francisco's heart." Swiftly he rose and, standing very straight before
the picture, raised his right hand to salute. "You are right," he said.
"He would have wanted me to be a soldier."

But Alice shook her head. "The conquest is over," she told him. "San
Francisco needs no gun nor saber now. In our courts and legislatures lie
the future ba