ightest breeze rippled the green of the
fields; and into this valley came neither the winds nor the fogs of the
ocean.

The priests and their guests of honor sat on the long corridor beside
the church; the soldiers, sailors, and Indians of Presidio and Mission
forming the other three sides of a hollow square. The Indian women
were a blaze of color. The ladies on the corridor wore their
mantillas, jewels, and the gayest of artificial flowers. There were as
many fans as women. Rezanov sat between Father Abella and the
Commandante, and not being in the best of tempers had never looked more
imposing and remote. Concha, leaning against one of the pillars, stole
a glance at him and wondered miserably if this haughty European had
really sought her hand, if it were not a girl's foolish dream. But
Concha's humble moments at this period of her life were rare, and she
drew herself up proudly, the blood of the proudest race in Europe
shaking angrily in her veins. A moment later, in response to a power
greater than any within herself, she turned again. The attention of the
hosts and guests was riveted upon the preliminary antics of the Indian
dancers, and Rezanov seized the opportunity to lean forward unobserved
and gaze at the girl whom it seemed to him he saw for the first time in
the full splendor of her beauty. She wore a large mantilla of white
Spanish lace. In the fashion of the day it rose at the back almost
from the hem of her gown to descend in a point over the high comb to
her eyes. The two points of the width were gathered at her breast,
defining the outlines of her superb figure, and fastened with one large
Castilian rose surrounded by its mass of tiny sharp buds and dull green
leaves. As the familiar scent assailed Rezanov's nostrils they tingled
and expanded. His lids were lifted and his eyes glowing as he finally
compelled her glance, and her own eyes opened with an eager flash; her
lips parted and her shoulders lost their haughty poise. For a moment
their gaze lingered in a perfect understanding; his ill-humor vanished,
and he leaned back with a complimentary remark as Father Abella
directed his attention to the most agile of the Indians.

The swart natives of both sexes with their thick features and long hair
were even more hideous than usual in bandeaux of bright feathers, scant
garments made from the breasts of water-fowls, rattling strings of
shells, and tattooing on arm and leg no longer concealed b