h the vaqueros in their black
and silver, their soft white linen! The shame! the shame!--if they are
put to shame! Poor Guido! Will he lose this day, when he has won so
many? But the stranger is so handsome! Dios de mi vida! his eyes are
like dark blue stars. And he is so cold! He alone--he seems not to care.
Madre de Dios! Madre de Dios! he wins again! No! no! no! Yes! Ay! yi!
yi! B-r-a-v-o!"

Guido Cabanares dug his spurs into his horse and dashed to the head of
the field, where Don Vicente sat at the left of General Castro. He was
followed hotly by several friends, sympathetic and indignant. As he
rode, he tore off his serape and flung it to the ground; even his silk
riding-clothes sat heavily upon his fury. Don Vicente smiled, and rode
forward to meet him.

"At your service, senor," he said, lifting his sombrero.

"Take your mustangs back to Los Angeles!" cried Don Guido, beside
himself with rage, the politeness and dignity of his race routed by
passion. "Why do you bring your hideous brutes here to shame me in the
eyes of Monterey? Why--"

"Yes! Why? Why?" demanded his friends, surrounding De la Vega. "This is
not the humiliation of a man, but of the North by the accursed South!
You even would take our capital from us! Los Angeles, the capital of the
Californias!"

"What have politics to do with horse-racing?" asked De la Vega, coldly.
"Other strangers have brought their horses to your field, I suppose."

"Yes, but they have not won. They have not been from the South."

By this time almost every caballero on the field was wheeling about De
la Vega. Some felt with Cabanares, others rejoiced in his defeat, but
all resented the victory of the South over the North.

"Will you run again?" demanded Cabanares.

"Certainly. Do you think of putting your knife into my neck?"

Cabanares drew back, somewhat abashed, the indifference of the other
sputtering like water on his passion.

"It is not a matter for blood," he said sulkily; "but the head is hot
and words are quick when horses run neck to neck. And, by the Mother of
God, you shall not have the last race. My best horse has not run. Viva
El Rayo!"

"Viva El Rayo!" shouted the caballeros.

"And let the race be between you two alone," cried one. "The North or
the South! Los Angeles or Monterey! It will be the race of our life."

"The North or the South!" cried the caballeros, wheeling and galloping
across the field to the donas. "Twenty leagues to a real fo