only black flocks
of crows mounted screaming from the willows, to dive and rise again.
Suddenly she became conscious that she was watched, and her gaze swept
downward to the corral. A stranger stood by the gates, giving orders to
a vaquero but looking hard at her from beneath his low-dropped sombrero.

He was tall, this stranger, and very slight. His face was nearly as dark
as an Indian's, but set with features so perfect that no one but Dona
Jacoba had ever found fault with his skin. Below his dreaming ardent
eyes was a straight delicate nose; the sensuous mouth was half parted
over glistening teeth and but lightly shaded by a silken mustache. About
his graceful figure hung a dark red serape embroidered and fringed
with gold, and his red velvet trousers were laced, and his yellow
riding-boots gartered, with silver.

Elena rose quickly and pulled the curtain across the window; the blood
had flown to her hair, and a smile chased the sadness from her mouth.
Then she raised her hands and pressed the palms against the slope of the
ceiling, her dark upturned eyes full of terror. For many moments she
stood so, hardly conscious of what she was doing, seeing only the
implacable eyes of her mother. Then down the road came the loud regular
hoof-falls of galloping horses, and with an eager cry she flung aside
the curtain, forgetting the stranger.

Down the road, half hidden by the willows, came two men. When they
reached the rancheria, Elena saw the faces: a sandy-haired hard-faced
old Scotsman, with cold blue eyes beneath shaggy red brows, and a dark
slim lad, every inch a Californian. Elena waved her handkerchief and the
lad his hat. Then the girl ran down the stairs and over to the willows.
Santiago sprang from his horse, and the brother and sister clung
together kissing and crying, hugging each other until her hair fell down
and his hat was in the dust.

"Thou hast come!" cried Elena at last, holding him at arm's length
that she might see him better, then clinging to him again with all her
strength. "Thou never wilt leave me again--promise me! Promise me, my
Santiago! Ay, I have been so lonely."

"Never, my little one. Have I not longed to come home that I might be
with you? O my Elena! I know so much. I will teach you everything."

"Ay, I am proud of thee, my Santiago! Thou knowest more than any boy in
California--I know."

"Perhaps that would not be much," with fine scorn. "But come, Elena mia,
I must go to my mother