r mother."

"That is the vocation of certain men," said Concha lightly.

XXIII

Life was very gay for a fortnight. An hour after the Commandante's
surrender he had despatched invitations to all the young folk of the
gente de razon of Monterey, Santa Barbara, Los Angeles, and San Diego,
and to such of the older as would brave the long journeys. The
Monterenos had arrived for the Mission entertainment, and during the
next few days the rest poured over the hills: De la Guerras, Xime'nos,
Estudillos, Carrillos, Este'negas, Morenos, Cotas, Estradas, Picos,
Pachecos, Lugos, Orte'gas, Alvarados, Bandinis, Peraltas, members of
the Luis, Rodriguez, Lopez families, all of gentle blood, that made up
the society of Old California; as gay, arcadian, irresponsible, yet
moral a society as ever fluttered over this planet. Every house in the
Presidio and valley, every spare room at the Mission, opened to them
with the exuberant hospitality of the country. The caballeros had their
finest wardrobes of colored silks and embroidered botas, sombreros
laden with silver, fine lawn and lace, jewel and sash, velvet serape
for the chill of the late afternoon. The matrons brought their stiff
robes of red and yellow satin, the girls as many flowered silks and
lawns, mantillas and rebosos, as the family carretas would hold. The
square of the Presidio was crowded from morning until midnight with the
spirited horses of the country, prancing impatiently under the heavy
Mexican saddle, heavier with silver, made a trifle more endurable by
the blanket of velvet or cloth. No Californian walked a dozen rods
when he had a horse to carry him.

But the horses were not always champing in the square. There was more
than one bull-bear fight, and twice a week at least they carried their
owners to the hills of the Mission ranch, or the rocky cliffs and
gorges above Yerba Buena, the Indian servants following with great
baskets of luncheon, perhaps roasting an ox whole in a trench. This
the Californians called barbecue and the picnic merienda.

There was dancing day and night, the tinkling of guitars, flirting of
fans. Rezanov vowed he would not have believed there were so many fans
and guitars in the world, and suddenly remembered he had never seen
Concha with either. The lady of his choice reigned supreme. Many had
taken the long blistering journey for no other purpose than to see the
famous beauty and her Russian; the engagement was as well kno