idio," I continued, as we emerged onto the quadrangle, "and it was
then lined with houses as it is today, only at that time they were crude
adobe structures. Surrounding these was a wall fourteen feet high, made
of huge upright and horizontal saplings plastered with mud, and as a
further means of protection, a wide ditch was dug on the outside. Here
Luis Argueello was Comandante for twenty-three years."

Our eyes wandered over the substantial structures with their
well-trimmed gardens and rested on a low rambling building opposite,
protected from the gaze of the curious by an old palm and guarded by a
quaint Spanish cannon. The building's simple outlines, even at a
distance, bespoke it as of a different generation from its more
aggressive neighbors, even though its red-tiled roof had been replaced
by sombre brown shingles, and its crumbling walls replastered. We
crossed over the parade ground, and peering within, found that the
building had been converted into an officers' club house.

"Did you see the bronze tablet on the front?" I demanded.

"Yes," he admitted rather sheepishly, turning to examine the deep window
embrasure that showed the width of the walls.

"There's an atmosphere of romance about the old place--"

"And well there may be," I broke in, "for it was here that Rafaela Sal
came as a bride, and that Rezanov met Luis Argueello's beautiful sister,
Concepcion, and a love story began which may well take place with that
of Miles Standish and Priscilla."

"Rezanov," he repeated, searching his memory. "I recall that there was a
romance connected with his visit to San Francisco but the details have
escaped me. Please sit down on this bench and tell me the story just as
if I had never heard it before."

"More than a century ago there dwelt in this old adobe house a beautiful
maiden," I began. "Her father was Comandante of the Presidio, 'el
Santo,' the people termed him, because of his goodness. Concepcion, or
Concha, as she was affectionately called by her parents, was only
fifteen years old when our story begins--a tall, slender girl with
masses of fine black hair and the fair Castilian skin, inherited from
her mother. So lovely was she that many a caballero had already sung at
her grating, but she would listen to none of them. Her lover would come
from over the sea, she declared, someone who could tell her about the
wide outside world.

"'Then you will die unmarried,' said her mother, kissing the soft che