ario had traded a small rancho for a herd of cattle. The young man's
face was very long when the last detail had been arranged, but he had
forgotten that his host was as Californian as himself. Don Roberto
poured him a brimming glass of angelica and gave him a hearty slap on
the back.

"The cattle will keep for a few days, Don Dario," he said, "and you
shall not leave this house until the festivities are over. Not until
a week from to-morrow--do you hear? I knew your father. We had many a
transaction together, and I take pleasure in welcoming his son under my
roof. Now get off to the young people, and do not make any excuses."

Dario made none.

IV

The next morning at eight, Francisca stood before the altar in the
chapel, looking very handsome in her rich gown and soft mantilla. The
bridegroom, a sensible-looking young Englishman, was somewhat nervous,
but Francisca might have been married every morning at eight o'clock.
Behind them stood Don Roberto in a new suit of English broadcloth, and
Dona Jacoba in heavy lilac silk, half covered with priceless lace. The
six bridesmaids looked like a huge bouquet, in their wide delicately
coloured skirts. Their dark eyes, mischievous, curious, thoughtful,
flashed more brilliantly than the jewels they wore.

The sala and Don Roberto's room beyond were so crowded that some of the
guests stood in the windows, and many could not enter the doors; every
family within a hundred leagues had come to the wedding. The veranda was
crowded with girls, the sparkling faces draped in black mantillas or
bright rebosos, the full gay gowns fluttering in the breeze. Men in
jingling spurs and all the bravery of gold-laced trousers and short
embroidered jackets respectfully elbowed their way past brown and stout
old women that they might whisper a word into some pretty alert little
ear. They had all ridden many leagues that morning, but there was not
a trace of fatigue on any face. The court behind the sala was full of
Indian servants striving to catch a glimpse of the ceremony.

Dario stood just within the front door, his eyes eagerly fixed upon
Elena. She looked like a California lily in her white gown; even her
head drooped a little as if a storm had passed. Her eyes were absent and
heavy; they mirrored nothing of the solemn gayety of the morning; they
saw only the welts on her brother's back.

Dario had not seen her since Santiago's arrival. She had not appeared at
supper, and he had sle