, and be recognized," came the response from a
tall form in blue, and the even taller white figure stepped forward and
stood face to face with the guardian of the night.

"I am Lieutenant Stuyvesant, aide-de-camp to General Vinton," explained
the challenged officer, noticing for the first time a little column of
dusky men in heavy leathern helmets and belts shuffling away towards the
Jesuit College with an old-fashioned diminutive "goose-neck" village
engine trailing at their heels.

"Been a fire, sentry?" he asked. "Where was it?"

"Up at Colonel Brent's, sir, I believe. His house fronts the
parade-ground. One moment, please! Lieutenant _Who_, sir? The officer
of the guard orders us to account for every officer by name." And
Stuyvesant, who, in instant alarm, had impulsively started, was again
recalled to himself, and, hastily turning back, spoke aloud:

"Stuyvesant my name is. I'll give it at the guard-house as I pass."

Once more he whirled about, his heart throbbing with anxiety. Once
more he would have hurried on his way to the Calle San Luis. A fire
there! and she, Marion, still so weak!--exhausted, possibly, by the
excitement--or distress--or whatever it was that resulted from Brent's
sudden presentation of that _carte-de-visite_. He would fly to her at
once!

For a third time the sentry spoke, and spoke in no faltering tone. He
was an American. He was wearing the rough garb of the private soldier in
the ranks of the regulars, but, like scores of other eager young
patriots that year, he held the diploma of a great, albeit a foreign,
university. He had education, intelligence, and assured social position
to back the training and discipline of the soldier. He knew his rights
as well as his duties, and that every officer in the service, no matter
how high, from commanding general down, was by regulation enjoined to
show respect to sentries, and this tall, handsome young swell, with a
name that sounded utterly unfamiliar to California ears, was in most
unaccountable hurry, and spoke as though he, the sentry, were exceeding
his powers in demanding his name. It put Private Thinking Bayonets on
his mettle.

"Halt, sir," said he. "My orders are imperative. You'll have to spell
that name."

In the nervous anxiety to which Stuyvesant was a prey, the sentry's
manner irritated him. It smacked at first of undue, unnecessary
authority, yet the soldier in him put the unworthy thought to shame,
and, struggling against