ne; for I have not a brain
of iron nor a soul of fire like thine. And, Eustaquia, I have more cause
to pray to-night."

"It is true, then, that Jose is in retreat? Ay, Mary!"

"My husband, deserted by all but one hundred men, is flying southward
from San Juan Bautista. I have it from the wash-tub mail. That never is
wrong."

"Ingrates! Traitors! But it is true, Modeste--surely, no?--that our
general will not surrender? That he will stand against the Americans?"

"He will not yield. He would have marched upon Monterey and forced them
to give him battle here but for this base desertion. Now he will go to
Los Angeles and command the men of the South to rally about him."

"I knew that he would not kiss the boots of the Americans like the rest
of our men! Oh, the cowards! I could almost say to-night that I like
better the Americans than the men of my own race. _They_ are Castros! I
shall hate their flag so long as life is in me; but I cannot hate the
brave men who fight for it. But my pain is light to thine. Thy heart is
wrung, and I am sorry for thee."

"My day is over. Misfortune is upon us. Even if my husband's life is
spared--ay! shall I ever see him again?--his position will be taken
from him, for the Americans will conquer in the end. He will be
Commandante-General of the army of the Californias no longer, but--holy
God!--a ranchero, a caballero! He at whose back all California has
galloped! Thou knowest his restless aspiring soul, Eustaquia, his
ambition, his passionate love of California. Can there be happiness for
such a man humbled to the dust--no future! no hope? Ay!"--she sprang to
her feet with arms uplifted, her small slender form looking twice its
height as it palpitated against the shadows, "I feel the bitterness of
that spirit! I know how that great heart is torn. And he is alone!"
She flung herself across Dona Eustaquia's knees and burst into violent
sobbing.

Dona Eustaquia laid her strong arm about her friend, but her eyes were
more angry than soft. "Weep no more, Modeste," she said. "Rather, arise
and curse those who have flung a great man into the dust. But comfort
thyself. Who can know? Thy husband, weary with fighting, disgusted with
men, may cling the closer to thee, and with thee and thy children forget
the world in thy redwood forests or between the golden hills of thy
ranchos."

Dona Modeste shook her head. "Thou speakest the words of kindness, but
thou knowest Jose. Thou knowest that he