In addition to all, he is good-looking and of graceful deportment, without being at all a dandy. On the contrary he carries himself with earnest air, calm and cool, while in his eyes may be read the expression—noli me tangere. A native of New Orleans, where duels occur almost daily, he is up in the art d'escrime; and since his arrival in California has twice called out his man—on the second occasion killing him.

Escroc as the French might call him; "blackleg" in the English vocabulary; "sport" in American phrase, Frank Lara is a man with whom no one who knows him likes to take liberties.

Such are the two men whom Inez Alvarez has facetiously styled types of Californian "chivalry," while Carmen Montijo has more correctly described them as typical of its "villainy." And yet to make call on this very Inez, and this same Carmen, the gentlemen so differently designated are now on their way!



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

CONFESSION OF FEAR.

After having delivered their speeches, so nearly alike in sound, yet so opposed in sense, the two girls stand for a short time silent, their faces turned toward the approaching horsemen. These are still more than a mile off, and to the ordinary eye only distinguishable as mounted men wearing cloaks—one of scarlet colour, the other sky-blue. But despite the distance, the others easily identify them, simultaneously, and in tone contemptuous, pronouncing their names.

"Yes," says Carmen, now speaking in full assurance, with a lorgnette raised to her eyes—hitherto bent upon the British warship, "in all California there are no truer types of what I've called them. Do you think they're coming on to the house, Inez?"

"'Tis very likely; I should say, almost certain."

"What can be bringing them?" mechanically queries Carmen, with an air of increased vexation.

"Their horses, aunt," rejoins the niece, jestingly.

"Don't jest, nina! It's too serious."

"What's too serious?"

"Why, these fellows coming hither. I wonder what they can be wanting?"

"You needn't wonder at that," says Inez, still speaking jocularly. "I can tell you what one of them wants, that one Don Francisco de Lara. He is desirous to have a look at the mistress of this mansion."

"And Don Faustino Calderon is no doubt equally desirous to look at her niece," retorts the other in like bantering tone.

"He's quite welcome. He may look till he strains his ugly eyes out. It won't make any impression on me."

"I'm sorry I can't say the same for Don Francisco. On me, his looks do make impression—far from pleasant."

"It wasn't always so, tia?"

"No, I admit. I only wish it had been."

"But why?"

"Because, now I shouldn't need to be afraid of him."

"Afraid of him! Surely you are not that?"

"Well, no—not exactly afraid—still—"

She speaks hesitatingly, and in disjointed phrases, her head drooping down. Then a quick change comes over her countenance, and, bending closer to the other, she asks, "Can I trust you with a confidence, Inez?"

"Why need you ask that? You've already trusted me with one—in telling me you love Don Eduardo."

"Now I give you another—by telling you I once loved Don Francisco."

"Indeed!"

"No, no!" rejoins Carmen quickly, and as half-repenting the avowal. "Not loved him—that's not true, I only came near it."

"And now?"

"I hate him!"

"Why, may I ask? What has changed you?"

"That's easily answered. When I first met him I was younger than now; a mere girl, full of girlish fancies—romantic, as called. I thought him handsome; and in a sense so he is. In person, you'll admit, he's all man may, or need, be—a sort of Apollo, or Hyperion. But in mind—ah, Inez, that man is a very Satyr—in heart and soul a Mephistopheles."

"But why should you be afraid of him?"

Carmen does not reply promptly. Clearly, she has not yet bestowed the whole of her confidence. There is something withheld.

Inez, whose sympathies are now enlisted, presses for the explanation.

"Carmen—dear Carmen! tell me what it is. Have you ever given Don Francisco a claim to call you his novia?"

"Never! Neither that, nor anything of the kind. He has no claim, and I no compromise. The only thing I've reason to regret is, having listened to his flattering speeches without resenting them."

"Pst! What does that signify? Why, Don Faustino has made flattering speeches to me—scores of them—called me all sorts of endearing names— does so whenever we two are together alone. I only laugh at him."

"Ah! Faustino Calderon is not Francisco de Lara. They are men of very different dispositions. In the behaviour of your admirer there's only a little of the ludicrous; in that of mine, there may be a great deal of danger. But let us cease discussing them. There's no time for that now. The question is, are they coming to call on us?"

"I think there can be no question about it. Very likely they've heard that we're soon going away, and are about to honour us with a farewell visit."

"Supposing they should stay till our English friends arrive!"

"Let them—who cares? I don't."

"But I do. If papa were at home, I mightn't so much mind it. But, just now, I've no desire to see Senor De Lara alone—still less while being visited by Eduardo. They're both demonios, though in a different way."

"Look yonder!" exclaims Inez, pointing towards the British frigate, where a boat is in the water under her beam. The sun, reflected from dripping oar-blades, tells them to be in motion.

While the girls continue gazing, the boat is seen to separate from the ship's side, and put shoreward, straight towards the sand-pit which projects in front of Don Gregorio's dwelling. The rowers are all dressed alike, the measured stroke of their oars betokening that the boat belongs to the man-o'-war. But the young ladies do not conjecture about this; nor have they any doubt as to the identity of two of the figures seated in the stern-sheets. Those uniforms of dark blue, with the gold buttons, and yellow cap-bands, are so well known as to be recognisable at any distance to which love's glances could possibly penetrate. They are the guests expected, for whom the spare horses stand saddled in the patio. For Don Gregorio, by no means displeased with certain delicate attentions which the young British officers have been paying to the female members of his family, has invited them to visit him—ride out along with the ladies, and, on return, stay to dinner. He knows that a treat of this kind will be pleasing to those he has asked; and, before leaving home, had given orders for the steeds to be saddled.

It is not the first time Crozier and Cadwallader have been to the Spaniard's house, nor the first to stretch their limbs under his dining-table, nor the first for them to have held pleasant converse with the senoritas, and strolled along solitary paths, opportune for the exchange of those love-locks. But it may be the last—at least during their sojourn in California. For in truth is it to be a farewell visit.

But with this understanding, another has been entered into. The acquaintance commenced in California is to be renewed at Cadiz, when the Crusader goes thither, which she is ere long expected to do. But for such anticipation Carmen Montijo and Inez Alvarez would not be so high-hearted at the prospect of a leave-taking so near. Less painful on this account, it might have been even pleasant, but for what they see on the opposite side—the horsemen approaching from the town. An encounter between the two pairs gives promise to mar the happy intercourse of the hour.

"They'll meet—they must!" says Carmen, apprehensively.

"Let them!" rejoins Inez, in a tone of nonchalance. "What if they do?"

"What! They may quarrel. I'm almost sure they will."

"No fear for that; and, if they should, where's the danger? You, such a believer in the romantic—stickler for old knight-errantry—instead of regretting it, should be glad! Look there! Lovers coming from all sides—suitors by land and suitors by sea! Knights terrestrial, knights aquatic. No lady of the troubadour times ever had the like; none ever honoured by such a rivalry! Come, Carmen, be proud! Stand firm on your castle-keep! Show yourself worthy to receive this double adoration!"

"Inez, you don't know the danger."

"There is none. If they should come into collision, and have a fight, let them. I've no fear for mine. If Willie Cadwallader isn't a match for Faustino Calderon, then he's not match, or mate, for me—never shall be."

"Sobrina! you shock me. I had no idea you were such a demonia. The Moorish blood, I suppose. Your words make me almost as wicked as yourself. It isn't for that I'm afraid. I've as much confidence in my lover as you in yours. No fear that Senor Crozier will cower before Francisco de Lara. If he do, I shall take back my heart a second time, and carry it unscathed to Cadiz!"



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

A SWEET PAIR OF SUITORS.

While the young ladies upon the house-top are discussing the characters of De Lara and Calderon, these worthies, in return, are conversing of them, and in a strain which bodes little good to Inez, with much evil to Carmen. That the visit designed for them is of no ordinary nature, but for an all important purpose, can be gleaned from the speech passing between the two horsemen as they ride along the road.

De Lara commences it by remarking:—

"Well, friend Faustino, from something you said before setting out, I take it you're going to Don Gregorio's on an errand very similar to my own? Come, camarado! declare it!"

"Declare yours!"

"Certainly. I shall make no secret of it to you; nor need I. Why should there be any between us? We've now known one another long enough, and intimately enough, to exchange confidences of the closest kind. To-day mine is—that I mean proposing to Don Gregorio's daughter—offering her my hand in marriage."

"And I," returns Calderon, "intend doing the same to his grand-daughter."

"In that case, we're both in the same boat; and, as there's no rivalry between us, we can pull pleasantly together. I've no objection to being your uncle; even admitting you to a share in the old Spaniard's property—proportioned to your claims of kinship."

"I don't want a dollar of the Don's money; only his grand-daughter. I'm deeply in love with her."

"And I," continues De Lara, "am just as deeply in love with his daughter—it may be deeper."

"You couldn't. I'm half-mad about Inez Alvarez. I could kill her—if she refuse me."

"I shall kill Carmen Montijo—if she refuse me." The two men are talking seriously, or seem so. Their voices, the tone, the flashing of their eyes, the expression upon their faces, with their excited gesticulation—all show them to be in earnest.

At the last outburst of passionate speech they turn in their saddles, and look each other in the face. De Lara continues the dialogue:

"Now, tell me, Faustino; what hope have you of success?"

"For that, fair enough. You remember the last fandango held at Don Gregorio's—on the day of the cattle-branding!"

"Certainly I do. I've good reason to remember it. But go on."

"Well, that night," proceeds Calderon, "I danced twice with Inez, and made many sweet speeches to her. Once I went farther, and squeezed her pretty little hand. She wasn't angry, or at all events didn't say or show it. Surely, after such encouragement, I may ask that hand in marriage—with fair presumption of not being refused. What's your opinion?"

"Your chances seem good. But what about himself. He'll have something to say in the matter."

"Too much, I fear; and that's just what I do fear. So long as his bit of grazing-land was worth only some thirty thousand dollars, he was amiable enough. Now that by this gold discovery it's got to be good value for eight or ten times the amount, he's become a different man, and in all likelihood will go dead against me."

"Like enough; it's the way of the world. And therefore, on that account, you needn't have a special spite against the Senor Montijo. You're sure no one else stands between you and your sweetheart? Or is there something in the shape of a rival?"

"Of course there is—a score of them, as you ought to know; same as with yourself, De Lara. Suitors have been coming and going with both, I suppose, ever since either was old enough to receive them. The last I've heard of paying attentions to Inez is a young naval officer—a midshipman on board a British man-of-war now lying in the harbour. Indeed there are two of them spoken of; one said to be your rival, as the other is mine. Shall I tell you what's been for some time the talk of the town? You may as well know it, if you don't already."

"What?" asks the Creole, excitedly.

"Why, that the one represented as your competitor has cut out all Carmen's other admirers—yourself among the rest."

Bitter words to the ear of Francisco de Lara, bringing the red colour to his cheeks, as if they had been smitten by a switch. With eyes flashing, and full of jealous fire, he exclaims:

"If that be so, I'll do as I've said—"

"Do what?"

"Kill Carmen Montijo! I swear it. I'm in earnest, Calderon, and mean it. If it be as you've heard, I'll surely kill her. I've the right to her life—by her giving me the right to her love."

"But did she do that? Has she ever confessed to loving you?"

"Not in words, I admit. But there are other signs of assent strong as speech, or the hand-squeezings you speak of. Carmen Montijo may be cunning. Some call her a coquette. All I know is, that she has led me to believe she loved me; and if she's been playing a false game, she shall rue it, one way or the other. This day I'm determined to ascertain the truth, by offering her my hand, as I've said, and asking hers. If she refuse it, then I'll know how things stand, and take steps for squaring accounts between us. She shall find that Frank Lara is not the sort of man to let one of womankind either laugh at, or play tricks with him."

"I admire your spirit, amigo. I catch courage from it, and will imitate your action. If it turn out that Inez has been trifling with me, I'll—well, we must first find what answer there is for us; which we shall, I suppose, soon after ascending yonder hill. One of us may be accepted, the other rejected. In that case, one will be happy, the other wretched. Or both may be accepted, and then we'll both be blessed. Taking things at their worst, and that we both get refused— what then? Despair, and a speedy end, I suppose?"

"The last, if you like, but not the first. When despair comes to Frank Lara, death will come along with it, of soon after. But we waste time talking; let us forward and learn our fate!"

With stroke of spur, urging their horses into a gallop, the two hasten on; in the countenances of both a cast showing them half-hopeful, half-doubting—such as may be seen when men are about to make some desperate attempt, with uncertainty as to the result. On Calderon's, notwithstanding his assumed levity, the expression is almost despairing; on that of De Lara it is more defiant and demon-like.



CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

A RUDE RENCONTRE.

Having steeled themselves to the reception of their rival suitors, with brave words one supporting the other, the two girls remain upon the azotea. Meanwhile, the man-o'-war's boat has been drawing in towards the beach, heading for a little embayment, formed by the shore-line and the sand-bar already spoken of.

The horsemen advancing from the town-side do not see it; nor can the crew of the boat perceive them. The land-ridge is between the two parties, its crest concealing them from one another.

They are approaching it at a like rate of speed; for although the horses appear to be in a gallop, it is only a fancy gait fashionable among Spanish-Americans, its purpose to exhibit equestrian skill. For the two horsemen looking up the hill, have seen heads on the house-top, and know that ladies' eyes are upon them.

Surreptitiously goaded by the spur, their steeds plunge and curvet, apparently progressing at a rapid pace, but in reality gaining little ground.

After a time both parties disappear from the eyes of those on the azotea. They have gone under the brow of the hill, which, overhanging for a short distance, shuts out a view of the road, as also the sea-shore, along the sand-spit.

Unseen from above, the man-o'-war's boat beaches, and the two officers spring out upon the strand. One of them turning, says something to the coxswain, who has remained in the stern-sheets, with the tiller-ropes in hand. It is an order, with instructions about where and when he is to wait for them on return to the ship.

"At the new wharf in the harbour," Crozier is heard to say; for it is he who commands.

His order given, the boat shoves off, and is rowed back towards the ship; while the officers commence climbing the slope, to get upon the shore-road.

At the same time the horsemen are ascending from the opposite side.

Soon both parties are again within view of those on the house-top; though neither as yet sees the other, or has any suspicion of such mutual proximity. The crest of the ridge is still between, but in a few seconds more they will sight one another.

The men afoot are advancing at about the same rate of speed as those on horseback. The latter have ceased showing off, as if satisfied with the impression they must have made, and are now approaching in tranquil gait, but with an air of subdued triumph—the mock modesty of the matador, who, with blood-stained sword, bends meekly before the box where beauty sits smiling approbation.

The two pedestrians climb the hill less ceremoniously. Glad to stretch their limbs upon land—"shake the knots out of their knees," as Cadwallader gleefully remarks—they eagerly scale the steep. Not silent either, but laughing and shouting like a couple of schoolboys abroad for an afternoon's holiday.

Suddenly coming within view of the house, they bring their boisterous humour under restraint at sight of two heads above the parapet. For they know to whom these belong, and note that the faces are turned towards them.

At the same instant the horsemen also see the heads, and observe that the faces are not turned towards them. On the contrary, from them, the ladies looking in another direction.

Some chagrin in this. After all their grand caracolling, and feats of equitation, which must have been witnessed by the fair spectators.

At what are these now gazing? Is it a ship sailing up the bay, or something else on the water? No matter what, and whether on land, or water; enough for the conceited fellows to think they are being slightingly received.

Disconcerted, they seek an explanation, mutually questioning one another. But before either can make answer in speech, they have it under their eyes—in the shape of a brace of British naval officers.

Like themselves, the latter have just reached the summit of the ridge, and are moving on towards Don Gregorio's gate. It is midway between; and keeping on at the same rate of speed, the two pairs will meet directly in front of it.

Before that moment, neither has ever set eyes on the other. Notwithstanding, there is an expression on the faces of all four, which tells of mutual recognition, and of no friendly nature.

Calderon whispers to De Lara:

"The English officers!"

Cadwallader says, sotto-voce to Crozier:

"The fellows we've heard about—our rivals, Ned, like ourselves, I suppose, going to visit the girls."

De Lara makes no response to Calderon. Neither does Crozier to Cadwallader. There is not time. They are now close up to the gate, and there is only its breadth between them.

They have arrived there at the same instant of time, and simultaneously make stop. Face to face, silence on both sides, neither word nor salute offered in exchange. But looks are quite as expressive—glances that speak the language of jealous rivalry—of rage with difficulty suppressed.

It is a question of precedence, as to who shall first pass into the entrance. Their hesitation was not from any courtesy, but the reverse. The men on horseback look down on those afoot contemptuously, scornfully. Threateningly, too; as though they had thoughts of riding over, and trampling them under the hoofs of their horses. No doubt they would like to do it, and might make trial, were the young officers unarmed. But they are not. Crozier carries a pistol—Cadwallader his midshipman's dirk, both weapons conspicuous outside their uniforms.

For a period of several seconds' duration, the rivals stand vis-a-vis, neither venturing to advance. Around them is a nimbus of angry electricity, that needs but a spark to kindle it into furious flame. A single word will do it. This word spoken, and two of the four may never enter Don Gregorio's gate—at least not alive.

It is not spoken. The only thing said is by Crozier to Cadwallader—not in a whisper, but aloud, and without regard to what effect it may have on the enemy.

"Come along, Will! We've something better to do than stand shilly-shallying here. Heave after me, shipmate!"

Crozier's speech cut the Gordian knot; and the officers, gliding through the gateway, advance along the avenue.

With faces now turned towards the house, they see the ladies still upon the azotea.

Soon as near enough for Carmen to observe it, Crozier draws out the treasured tress, and fastens it in his cap, behind the gold band. It falls over his shoulder like a cataract of liquid amber.

Cadwallader does likewise; and from his cap also streams a tress, black as the plumes of a raven.

The two upon the house-top appear pleased by this display. They show their approval by imitating it. Each raises hand to her riding-hat; and when these are withdrawn, a curl of hair is seen set behind their toquillas—one chestnut-brown, the other of yellowish hue.

Scarce is this love-telegraphy exchanged, when the two Californians come riding up the avenue, at full speed. Though lingering at the gate, and still far-off, De Lara had observed the affair of the tresses, clearly comprehending the symbolism of the act. Exasperated beyond bounds, he can no longer control himself, and cares not what may come.

At his instigation, Calderon spurs on by his side, the two tearing furiously along. Their purpose is evident: to force the pedestrians from the path, and so humble them in the eyes of their sweethearts.

On his side, Crozier remains cool, admonishing Cadwallader to do the same. They feel the power of possession: assured by those smiles, that the citadel is theirs. It is for the outsiders to make the assault.

"Give a clear gangway, Will!" counsels Crozier; "and let them pass. We can talk to the gentlemen afterwards."

Both step back among the manzanita bushes, and the ginetes go galloping past; De Lara on Crozier's side scowling down, as if he would annihilate the English officer with a look. The scowl is returned with interest, the officer still reserves speech.

On the other edge of the avenue the action is a little different. The midshipman, full of youthful freak, determines on having his "lark." He sees the chance, and cannot restrain himself. As Calderon sweeps past, he draws his dirk, and pricks the Californian's horse in the hip. The animal, maddened by the pain, springs upward, and then shoots off at increased speed, still further heightened by the fierce exclamations of his rider, and the mocking laughter of the mid.

Under the walls the two horsemen come to a halt, neither having made much by their bit of rude bravadoism. And they know they will have a reckoning to settle for it—at least De Lara does. For on the brow of Crozier, coming up, he can read a determination to call him to account. He is not flurried about this. On the contrary, he has courted it, knowing himself a skilled swordsman, and dead shot. Remembering that he has already killed his man, he can await with equanimity the challenge he has provoked. It is not fear has brought the pallor to his cheeks, and set the dark seal upon his brow. Both spring from a different passion: observable in his eyes as he turns them towards the house-top. For the ladies are still there, looking down.

Saluting, he says:

"Dona Carmen, can I have the honour of an interview?"

She thus interrogated does not make immediate answer. Spectator of all that has passed, she observes the hostile attitude between the two sets of visitors. To receive both at the same time will be more than embarrassing. With their angry passions roused to such a pitch, it must end in a personal encounter.

Her duty is clear. She is mistress of the house, representing her father, who is absent. The English officers are there by invitation. At thought of this she no longer hesitates.

"Not now, Don Francisco de Lara," she says, replying to his question; "not to-day. I must beg of you to excuse me."

"Indeed!" rejoins he sneeringly. "Will it be deemed discourteous in me to ask why I am denied?"

It is discourteous; and so Dona Carmen deems it. Though she does not tell him as much in words, he can take it from her rejoinder.

"You are quite welcome to know the reason. We have an engagement!"

"Oh! an engagement!"

"Yes, sir, an engagement," she repeats, in a tone telling of irritation. "Those gentlemen you see are our guests. My father has invited them to spend the day with us."

"Ah! your father has invited them! How very good of Don Gregorio Montijo, extending his hospitality to gringos! And Dona Carmen has added her kind compliments with earnest entreaties for them to come, no doubt?"

"Sir!" says Carmen, no longer able to conceal her indignation, "your speech is impertinent—insulting. I shall listen to it no longer."

Saying which, she steps back, disappearing behind the parapet—where Inez has already concealed herself, at the close of a similar short, but stormy, dialogue with Calderon.

De Lara, a lurid look in his eyes, sits in his saddle as if in a stupor. He is roused from it by a voice, Crozier's, saying:

"You appear anxious to make apology to the lady? You can make it to me."

"Caraji!" exclaims the gambler, starting, and glaring angrily at the speaker. "Who are you?"

"One who demands an apology for your very indecorous behaviour."

"You'll not get it."

"Satisfaction, then."

"That to your heart's content."

"I shall have it so. Your card, sir?"

"There; take it. Yours?"

The bits of cardboard are exchanged; after which De Lara, casting another glance up to the azotea—where he sees nothing but blank wall—turns his horse's head; then spitefully plying the spur, gallops back down the avenue—his comrade close following.

Calderon has not deemed it incumbent upon him to demand a card from Cadwallader. Nor has the latter thought it necessary to take one from him; the mid is quite contented with that playful prod with his dirk.

The young officers enter the house, in cheerful confidence. They have lost nothing by the encounter, and those inside will still smilingly receive them—as indeed they do.



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

A SHIP WITHOUT SAILORS.

Among the vessels lying in the harbour of San Francisco is one athwart whose stern is lettered the name El Condor.

She is a ship of small dimensions—some five or six hundred tons— devoted to peaceful commerce, as can be told by certain peculiarities of rig and structure, understood by the initiated in nautical affairs.

The name will suggest a South American nationality—Ecuadorian, Peruvian, Bolivian, or Chilian—since the bird after which she has been baptised is found in all these States. Columbia and the Argentine Confederation can also claim it.

But there is no need to guess at the particular country to which the craft in question belongs. The flag suspended over her taffrail declares it, by a symbolism quite intelligible to those who take an interest in national insignia.

It is a tricolour—the orthodox red, white, and blue—not, as with the French, disposed vertically, but in two horizontal bands; the lower one crimson red, the upper half-white, half-blue—the last contiguous to the staff, with a single five-pointed star set centrally in its field. This disposition of colours proclaims the ship that carries them to be Chilian.

She is not the only Chilian craft in the harbour of San Francisco. Several others are there showing the same colours; brigs, barques, schooners, and ships. For the spirited little South American Republic is as prosperous as enterprising, and its flag waves far and wide over the Pacific. With its population of skilled miners, it had been among the first of foreign states in sending a large representative force to "cradle" the gold placers of California, and not only are its ships lying in the bay, but its guasos and gambusinos in goodly number tread the streets of the town; while many of the dark-eyed damsels, who from piazzas and balconies salute the passer-by with seductive smiles, are those charming little Chilenas that make havoc with the heart of almost every Jack-tar who visits Valparaiso.

On the ship El Condor we meet not much that can be strictly called Chilian; little besides the vessel herself and the captain commanding her. Not commanding her sailors: since there are none upon her hailing from Chili or elsewhere. Those who brought the Condor into San Francisco Bay have abandoned her—gone off to the gold-diggings! Arriving in the heat of the placer-fever, they preferred seeking fortune with pick, shovel, and pan, to handling tarry ropes at ten dollars a month. Almost on the instant of the ship's dropping anchor they deserted to a man, leaving her skipper to himself, or with only his cook for a companion.

Neither is the latter Chilian, but African—a native of Zanzibar. No more the two great monkeys, observed gambolling about the deck; for the climate of Chili, lying outside the equatorial belt, is too cold for indigenous quadrumana.

Not much appearing upon the Condor would proclaim her a South American ship; and nothing in her cargo, for a cargo she carries. She has just arrived from a trading voyage to the South Sea Isles, extending to the Indian Archipelago, whence her lading—a varied assortment, consisting of tortoise-shell, spices, mother-of-pearl, Manilla cigars, and such other commodities as may be collected among the Oriental islands. Hence also the myas monkeys—better known as orang-outangs—seen playing about her deck. These she has brought from Borneo.

Only a small portion of her freight had been consigned to San Francisco; this long ago landed. The rest remains in her hold for further transport to Valparaiso.

How soon she may arrive there, or take departure from her present anchorage, is a question that even her skipper cannot answer. If asked, he would most probably reply, "Quien sabe?" and, further pressed, might point to her deserted decks, offering that as an explanation of his inability to satisfy the inquirer.

Her captain—Antonio Lantanas by name—is a sailor of the Spanish-American type; and being this, he takes crosses and disappointments coolly. Even the desertion of his crew seems scarcely to have ruffled him; he bears it with a patient resignation, that would be quite incomprehensible to either English or Yankee skipper. With a broad-brimmed jipi-japa hat shading his swarth features from the sun, he lounges all day long upon the quarterdeck, his elbows usually rested upon the capstan-head; his sole occupation rolling and smoking paper cigarritos, one of which is usually either in his fingers, or between his lips. If he at any time varies this, it is to eat his meals, or to take a turn at play with his pet monkeys.

These creatures are male and female, both full of fun in their uncouth fashion; and Captain Lantanas takes it out of them by occasionally touching their snouts with the lit end of his cigarette, laughing to see them scamper off, scared at the (to them) singular, and somewhat painful, effect of fire.

His meals are served regularly three times a day, and his cook—the aforesaid negro, black as the tar upon the rattlin ropes—after having served them, returns to an idleness equalling his own. He too, has his diversion with the orangs, approaching much nearer to them in physical appearance, and for this reason, perhaps, a more congenial playmate.

Once a day the skipper steps into his gig, and rows himself ashore. But not to search for sailors. He knows that would be an idle errand. True, there are plenty of them in San Francisco; scores parading its streets, and other scores seated, or standing, within its taverns and restaurants. But they are all on the spree—all rollicking, and if not rich, hoping soon to be. Not a man of them could be coaxed to take service on board an outbound ship for wages less than would make the voyage little profitable to her owner.

As the Chilian skipper is not only master, but proprietor of his own craft, he has no intention to stir under the circumstances; but is contented to wait till times change, and tars become inclined again to go to sea. When this may be, and the Condor shall spread her canvas wings for a further flight to Valparaiso, he has not the remotest idea. When he enters the town, it is to meet other skippers with ships crewless as his own, and exchange condolences on their common destitution.

On a certain day—that on which we are introduced to him—he has not sculled himself ashore, but abides upon his vessel, awaiting the arrival of one who has sent a message forewarning him of an intended visit.

Although San Francisco is fast becoming transformed into an American city, and already has its half-dozen newspapers, there is among these a small sheet printed in Spanish, by name El Diario. In it Captain Lantanas has advertised his vessel, for freight or passage, bound for Valparaiso, and to call at intermediate ports—Panama among the number. The advertisement directs reference to be made to a shipping-agent, by name Don Tomas Silvestre.

In answer to it, the Chilian has received a letter from a gentleman who had already communicated with the agent, and who has promised to present himself on board the Condor by 12 mid-day of this same day.

Although a stranger to the port of San Francisco, Captain Lantanas has some knowledge of his correspondent; for Don Tomas has the day before informed him that a gentleman from whom he may expect to hear—the same whose name is signed to the letter—is a man of immense wealth; a landed proprietor, whose acres lie contiguous to the rising city of San Francisco, and for this reason enormously increased in value by the influx of gold-seeking immigrants. What this important personage may want with him, Lantanas cannot tell; for Silvestre himself has not been made aware of it—the gentleman declining to state his business to any other than the captain of the ship.

On the morning of the appointed day, leaning as usual against his capstan, and puffing his paper cigar, the Chilian skipper is not in a mood for playing with his monkey pets. His mind is given to a more serious matter, his whole thoughts absorbed in conjecturing for what purpose his unknown correspondent may be seeking the interview.

He is not without surmises, in which he is assisted by something he has heard while mixing in Spanish circles ashore—this, that the landowner in question has lately sold his land, realising a very large sum—half a million dollars being the amount stated. Furthermore, that being a Peninsular Spaniard, and neither Mexican nor Californian, he is about to return to Spain, taking with him his household gods—Lares, Penates, and all.

These could not be stowed in a single state-room, but would require a whole ship, or a goodly portion of one. The Condor has still plenty of room to spare. Her hold is not half full; and her cabin has accommodation for one or two passengers. May it be on this business his correspondent is coming aboard.

So Captain Lantanas interrogates himself, while standing upon his quarterdeck, and with the glowing coal of his cigarrito sending off his hairy familiars, who, in their play, at times intrude upon him.

It pleases him to think he may have surmised correctly; and, while still indulging in conjectures, he sees that which puts an end to them—a shore-boat, with a single pair of rowers, and a gentleman—evidently a landsman—seated in the stern-sheets, to all appearance coming on for the Condor.

Captain Lantanas steps to the side of his ship; and, standing in her waist, awaits the arrival of his visitor.

As the boat draws near he makes out a man, dressed in semi-Californian costume, such as is worn by the higher class of haciendados. The skipper can have no doubts about who it is. If he has, they are soon set at rest; for the boat touching the ship's side is instantly made fast; the haciendado mounts the man-ropes; and, stepping down upon the deck, hands Captain Lantanas his card.

He who has thus presented himself is a man in years well up to sixty, and somewhat above medium height. Taller than he appears, through a slight stoop in the shoulders. His step, though not tottering, shows vigour impaired; and upon his countenance are the traces of recent illness, with strength not yet restored. His complexion is clear, rather rubicund, and in health might be more so; while his hair, both on head and chin—the latter furnished with a long flowing beard—is snow-white. It could never have been very dark, but more likely of the colour called sandy. This, with greyish-blue eyes, and features showing some points of Celtic conformation, would argue him either no Spaniard, or if so, one belonging to the province of Biscay.

This last he is; for the correspondent of Captain Lantanas is Don Gregorio Montijo.



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

A CHARTER-PARTY.

Soon, as assured—by a glance at the card given him—that his visitor is the gentleman who has written to appoint an interview, Captain Lantanas politely salutes; and jipi-japa in hand, stands waiting to hear what the haciendado may have to say.

The latter, panting after the effort made in ascending the man-ropes, takes a moment's time to recover breath. Then, returning the skipper's bow, he says, interrogatively:—

"Captain Lantanas, I presume?"

"Si, senor," responds the master of the Condor, with a bow of becoming humility to one reputed so rich. Then adding: "A dispocion de V."

"Well, captain," rejoins Don Gregorio, "I shall take it for granted that you know who I am. Don Tomas Silvestre has informed you, has he not?"

"He has, senor."

"And you received my letter?"

"Si, senor."

"That's all right, then. And now to proceed to the business that has brought me aboard your ship. Having seen your advertisement in the Diario, I communicated with Don Tomas; but only so far as to get your correct address, with some trifling particulars. For the rest, I've thought it best to deal directly with yourself; as the matter I have in hand is too important to be entrusted to an agent. In short, it requires confidence, if not secrecy, and from what I've heard of you, Senor Lantanas, I feel sure I can confide in you."

"You compliment me, Senor Montijo."

"No, no; nothing of the kind. I but speak from the account Silvestre has given me of your character. But now to business. Your ship is advertised for freight, or passage?"

"Either, or both."

"Bound for Valparaiso and intermediate ports?"

"Anywhere down the coast."

"Have you passengers already engaged?"

"Not any as yet."

"How many can you take?"

"Well, senor, to speak truth, my craft is not intended to carry passengers. She's a trading-vessel, as you see. But if you'll step down to the cabin, you can judge for yourself. There's a saloon—not very large, it is true—and sleeping accommodation for six—two snug staterooms that will serve, if need be, for ladies."

"That'll do. Now about the freight. Don Tomas tells me you have some cargo aboard."

"A portion of my ship is already occupied."

"That won't signify to me. I suppose there's enough room left for something that weighs less than a ton, and isn't of any great bulk. Say it will take a score or two of cubic feet. You can find stowage for that?"

"Oh, yes, that and much more."

"So far good. And you can accommodate three passengers: a gentleman and two ladies? In short, myself and the female members of my family—my daughter and grand-daughter?"

"Will the Senor Montijo step into the Condor's cabin, and see for himself?"

"By all means."

Captain Lantanas leads down the stairway, his visitor following.

The saloon is inspected; after it the sleeping-rooms, right and left.

"Just the thing," says Don Gregorio, speaking as in soliloquy, and evidently satisfied. "It will do admirably," he adds, addressing himself to the skipper. "And now about terms. What are they to be?"

"That, senor, will depend on what is wanted. To what port do you wish me to take you?"

"Panama. 'Tis one of the ports mentioned in your advertisement?"

"It is, senor."

"Well, for this freight—as I've told you, about a ton, with some trifling household effects—and the three passengers, how much?"

"The terms of freight, as you may be aware, are usually rated according to the class of goods. Is it gold, senor? From your description. I suppose it is."

The skipper has guessed aright. It is gold, nearly a ton of it, accruing to Don Gregorio from the sale of his land, for which he has been paid in dust and nuggets, at that time the only coin in California—indeed, the only circulating medium, since notes were not to be had.

"Suppose it to be gold," he answers guardedly, "how much then?"

The ex-ganadero is by no means a niggardly man; still, he would like to have his treasure transported at a rate not exorbitant. And yet he is anxious about its safety; and for this reason has resolved to ship it with secrecy in a private trading-vessel, instead of by one of the regular liners, that have already commenced plying between San Francisco and Panama. He has heard that these are crowded with miners returning home; rough fellows, many of them queer characters—some little better than bandits. He dislikes the idea of trusting his gold among them, and equally his girls, since no other ladies are likely to be going that way. He has full faith in the integrity of Captain Lantanas; knows the Chilian to be a man of gentle heart—in fact, a gentleman. Don Tomas has told him all this.

Under the circumstances, and with such a man, it will not do to drive too hard a bargain; and Don Gregorio, thus reflecting, at length confesses his freight to be gold bullion, and asks the skipper to name his terms.

Lantanas, after a moment spent in mental calculation, says:

"One thousand dollars for the freight, and a hundred each for the three passages. Will that satisfy you, senor?"

"It seems a large sum," rejoins Don Gregorio. "But I am aware prices are high just now; so I agree to it. When will you be ready to sail?"

"I am ready now, senor—that is, if—"

"If what?"

Lantanas, remembering his crewless ship, does not make immediate answer.

"If," says the Spaniard, noticing his hesitation, and mistaking the reason—"if you're calculating on any delay from me, you needn't. I can have everything on board in three or four days—a week at the utmost."

The skipper is still silent, thinking of excuses. He dislikes losing the chance of such a profitable cargo, and yet knows he cannot name any certain time of sailing, for the want of hands to work his vessel.

There seems no help for it but to confess his shortcomings. Perhaps Don Gregorio will wait till the Condor can get a crew. The more likely, since every other vessel in port is in a similar predicament.

"Senor," he says at length, "my ship is at your service; and I should be pleased and proud to have you and your ladies as my passengers. But there's a little difficulty to be got over before I can weigh anchor."

"Clearance duties—port dues to be paid. You want the passage-money advanced, I presume? Well, I shall not object to prepaying it in part. How much will you require?"

"Mil gracias, Senor Montijo. It's not anything of the kind. Although far from rich, thank Heaven, neither I nor my craft is under embargo. I could sail out of San Francisco in half-an-hour, but for the want of—"

"Want of what?" asks Don Gregorio in some surprise.

"Well, senor—sailors."

"What! Have you no sailors?"

"I am sorry to say, not one."

"Well, Captain Lantanas, I thought it strange observing nobody aboard your ship—except that black fellow. But I supposed your sailors had gone ashore."

"So have they, senor; and intend staying there. Alas! that's the trouble. They've gone off to the gold-diggings—every one of them, except my negro cook. Likely enough, I should have lost him too, but he knows that California is now part of the United States, and fears that some speculating Yankee might make a slave of him, or that perchance he might meet his old master: for he has had one."

"How vexatious all this!" says Don Gregorio. "I suppose I shall have to look out for another ship."

"I fear you'll not find one much better provided than mine—as regards sailors. In that respect, to use a professional phrase, we're all in the same boat."

"You assure me of that!"

"I do, senor."

"I can trust you, Captain Lantanas. As I have told you, I'm not here without knowing something of yourself. You have a friend in Don Tomas Silvestre?"

"I believe I have the honour of Don Tomas's friendship."

"Well, he has recommended you in such terms that I can thoroughly rely upon you. For that reason, I shall now make more fully known to you why I wish to travel by your ship."

The Chilian skipper bows thanks for the compliment, and silently awaits the proffered confidence.

"I've just sold my property here, receiving for it three hundred thousand dollars in gold-dust—the same I intended for your freight. It is now lying at my house, some three miles from town. As you must be aware, captain, this place is at present the rendezvous of scoundrels collected from every country on the face of the habitable globe, but chiefly from the United States and Australia. They live, and act, almost without regard to law; such judges as they have being almost as great criminals as those brought before them. I feel impatient to get away from the place; which under the circumstances, you won't wonder at. And I am naturally anxious about my gold. At any hour a band of these lawless ruffians may take it into their heads to strip me of it—or, at all events, attempt to do so. Therefore, I wish to get it on board a ship—one where it will be safe, and in whose captain I can thoroughly confide. Now, you understand me?"

"I do," is the simple response of the Chilian. He is about to add that Don Gregorio's property, as his secret, will be safe enough, so far as he can protect it, when the latter interrupts him by continuing:

"I may add that it is my intention to return to Spain, of which I am a native—to Cadiz, where I have a house. That I intended doing anyhow. But now, I want to take departure at once. As a Spaniard, senor, I needn't point out to you, who are of the same race, that the society of California cannot be congenial—now that the rowdies of the United States have become its rulers. I am most anxious to get away from the place, and soon as possible. It is exceedingly awkward your not having a crew. Can't something be done to procure one?"

"The only thing is to offer extra pay. There are plenty of sailors in San Francisco; for they've not all gone to gather gold. Some are engaged in scattering it. Unfortunately, most are worthless, drunken fellows. Still it is possible that a few good men might be found, were the wages made sufficiently tempting. No doubt, an advertisement in the Diario, offering double pay, might attract as many as would be needed for working my ship."

"How much would it all amount to?"

"Possibly an extra thousand dollars."

"Suppose I pay that, will you engage the whole ship to me? That is, take no other passengers, or wait for any more freight, but sail at once—soon as you've secured a crew? Do you agree to these terms?"

"Si, senor; they are perfectly satisfactory."

"I'll be answerable for the extra wages. Anything to get away from this Pandemonium of a place."

"In that case, senor, I think we'll have no great difficulty in procuring hands. You authorise me to advertise for them?"

"I do," answers Don Gregorio.

"Enough!" rejoins the skipper. "And now, Senor Montijo, you may make your preparations for embarking."

"I've not many to make; nearly all has been done already. It's only to get our personal baggage aboard, with the freight safely stowed. By the way," adds the Biscayan, speaking sotto-voce, "I wish to ship the gold as soon as possible, and without attracting attention to it. You understand me, captain?"

"I do."

"I shall have it brought aboard at night, in a boat which belongs to Silvestre. It will be safer in your cabin than anywhere else—since no one need be the wiser about the place of deposit."

"No one shall, through me."

"That I feel certain of, Senor Lantanas. Don Tomas is your endorser; and would be willing to be your bondsman, were it needed—which it is not."

Again the Condor's captain bows in acknowledgment of the confidence reposed in him; and after some further exchange of speech, respecting the shipment of the treasure, and the writing out an advertisement, which Don Gregorio is to get inserted in the Diario, the latter returns to his boat, and is rowed back to the shore; while the Chilian lights a fresh cigarette, and with elbows rested on the capstan-head, resumes his customary attitude of insouciance, from which he had been temporarily roused.



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

IN SEARCH OF A SECOND.

Just about the time Don Gregorio is taking leave of Captain Lantanas, the two unwelcome, as unreceived, visitors are turning their backs upon his house.

De Lara feels his discomfiture the keenest. His heart is harrowed with mingled emotions—passions of varied complexion, all evil. His lips are livid with rage, his brow black with chagrin, while his eyes fairly scintillate with unsatisfied vengeance.

While returning along the avenue he neither looks back, nor up. Not a syllable escapes him; with glance upon the ground, he rides in sullen silence.

After clearing the entrance-gate, and again upon the outside road, he turns face toward the dwelling whose hospitality has been so insultingly denied him. He sees nought there to soothe, but something which still further afflicts him. Four horses are filing out through the front gate, conducted by grooms. They are saddled, bridled, ready for being mounted. To his practised eye, their caparison tells that they are intended only for a short excursion, not a journey. And though their saddles are in shape nearly alike, he knows that two of them are to be mounted by men, the other two to carry ladies.

"The senoritas are going out for a ride—a paseo de campo—accompanied by their English guests," observes Calderon.

Simultaneously, as instinctively, de Lara arrives at this conclusion. Both now know why they were not received; a knowledge which, instead of tranquillising their chafed spirits, but maddens them the more. The thought of their sweethearts being escorted by these detested rivals, riding along wild unfrequented paths, through trees overshadowing, away from the presence of spying domestics, or the interference of protecting relatives, beyond the eyes and ears of every one—the thought that Carmen Montijo and Inez Alvarez are setting out on an excursion of this kind, is to Francisco de Lara and Faustino Calderon bitter as deadliest poison.

And reflection embitters it the more. The excursionists will have every opportunity of wandering at will. They will become separated; and there can be no doubt as to how the partition will be made; the older of the two officers will pair off with Dona Carmen, the younger with Dona Inez. Thus, they will ride unmolested, unobserved; converse without fear of being overheard; clasp hands without danger of being seen—perhaps exchange kisses! Oh, the dire, desperate jealousy! Even the dull brain and cold heart of Calderon are fired by these reflections. They sting him to the quick. But not as De Lara; for not as De Lara does he love.

After gazing for a while at the house—at the horses and grooms—at the preparations that are being made for mounting—noting their magnificent style—with a last glance such as Satan gave when expelled from Paradise, the Creole drives the spur deep into his horse's ribs, and dashes off down the hill the Californian after.

At its bottom they again come to a halt, being now out of sight of the house. Facing toward his companion, De Lara says:

"We're in for a fight, Faustino; both of us."

"Not both. I don't think I'm called upon to challenge that youngster. He's but a boy."

"He's been man enough to insult you; and, if I mistake not, you'll find him man enough to meet you."

"I don't see that he did insult me."

"Indeed; you don't? Sticking your horse, as if it were a pig, and sending him off in a stampede that well nigh dismounted you; all before the face of your lady-love—right under her eyes! You don't deem that an insult, eh?"

"But you must remember I gave him provocation. At your bidding, I all but rode over him. Looking at it in that light, he's in a sense excusable for what he did. Besides, he only meant it as a joke. Didn't you see, when it was all over, how he laughed at it?"

"Not at it, but at you. So did your sweetheart, amigo. As we reined up under the walls, I could see her long lashes drooping down, the eyes looking disdain at you, with her pretty lips pouting in very scorn. You're evidently out of her good graces, and you'll have to do something ere you can reinstate yourself."

"Do you really think so?"

"I am sure of it. Never surer of anything in my life."

"But what would you have me to do?"

"You ought to know without asking me. Call out the cub, and kill him—if you can. What I design doing with my gentleman."

"Ah! you're a dead shot; and that makes all the difference. These Anglo-Saxons always use pistols; and if I challenge him, he'll have the choice of weapons."

"Quite true. With me it will be different. I took care to give the affront, and you should have done the same. Seeing you got the worst of it, you ought to have followed up your first dash at him by something besides—a slap across the cheek, or a cut with your whip."

"I'm sorry now I didn't give him one or the other."

"Well, you may find an opportunity yet. For my quarrel, I don't care a toss whether it be settled with swords or pistols. We Creoles of Louisiana are accustomed to the use of either weapon. Thanks to old Gardalet of the Rue Royale, I've got the trick of both; and am equally ready to send a half-ounce of lead, or twelve inches of steel, through the body of this Britisher. By the way, what's his name?"

The speaker pulls out the card given him by the English officer, and glancing at it, answers his own question: "Edward Crozier, H.M.S. Crusader."

"Ha! Mr Ned Crozier!" he exclaims, speaking in plain English, the sight of the card seemingly giving a fresh fillip to his spleen; "you've had your triumph to-day. 'Twill be mine to-morrow. And, if my fortune don't fail me, there'll be an empty seat at the mess-table of the ship Crusader."

"You really intend fighting him?"

"Now, Don Faustino Calderon, why do you ask that question?"

"Because I think all might be arranged without—"

"Without what? Speak out, man!"

"Why, without any spilling of blood."

"You may arrange it that way, if you like. Your quarrel is a distinct one, and I've nothing to do with it—having my own hands full. Indeed, if they were empty, I'm not so sure I should be your second—talking as you do. However, that's not the purpose now. In answer to your first question, I can only say what I've said before. I not only intend fighting this Crozier, but killing him. True, I may fail in my intention; if so, there's an end of it, and of me. For, once on the ground, I don't leave it a living man, if he do. One or both of us shall stay there, till we're carried off—feet-foremost."

"Carramba! your talk gives one the trembles. It's not pleasant to think of such things, let alone doing them."

"Think your own way, and welcome. To me it would be less pleasant to leave them undone; less now, than ever in my life. After what I've gone through, I don't care much for character—in truth, not a straw. That's all stuff and pretension. Money makes the man, and without it he's nothing; though he were a saint. Respectability—bah! I don't value it a claco. But there's a reputation of another kind I do value, and intend to preserve. Because in my world it counts for something—has counted already."

"What is that?"

"Courage. Losing it, I should lose everything. And in this very city of San Francisco, I'd be only a hound where I'm now a hunter; barked at by every cur, and kicked by every coward who choose to pick a quarrel with me."

"There's no danger of that, Don Francisco. All who have had dealings with you know better. There's little fear of any one putting a slight upon you."

"There would be, if I refused to fight this fellow. Then you'd see the difference. Why, Faustino Calderon. I couldn't sit at our monte table, and keep the red-shirts from robbing us, if they didn't know 'twould be a dangerous game to play. However, it isn't their respect I value now, but that of one very different."

"Of whom?"

"Again you ask an idle question; so idle, that I don't believe you care a straw for Inez Alvarez—or know what love is."

"What has she to do with it?"

"She—nothing. That's true enough. I don't care aught for her, or what she might think of me. But I do care for Carmen Montijo; above all things I value her good opinion. At least, so far, that she sha'n't think me either a fool or a coward. She may be fancying me the first; but if so, she'll find herself mistaken. At all events, she'll get convinced I'm not the last. And if it be as rumour reports, and as you say you've heard, that she's given her heart to this gringo, I'll take care she don't bestow her hand upon him—not while I live. When I'm dead, she can do as she likes."

"But after what's passed, will you ever speak to her again?"

"Ay, that will I—in a way that'll make her listen to me."

"But, surely, you don't still intend proposing to her?"

"Perhaps. Though not till I've finished this affair with the fellow who interrupted me. Yes; I'll give her every chance to save herself. She shall say yea, or nay, in straight speech, and in so many words. After that, I'll understand how to act. But come! we're wasting time. A duel's a thing won't do to dally over. Do you intend to meet your man, or not?"

"I'd rather not," replies the poltroon, hesitatingly; "that is, if the thing can be arranged. Do you think it can, De Lara?"

"Of course, it can; your thing, as you call it; though not without disgrace to you. You should fight him, Faustino."

"Well; if you say I should, why, I suppose I must. I never fired a pistol in my life, and am only second-rate with the sword. I can handle a machete, or a cuchilla, when occasion calls for it; but these weapons won't be admitted in a duel between gentlemen. I suppose the sailor fellow claims to be one?"

"Undoubtedly he does, and with good reason. An officer belonging to a British man-of-war would call you out for questioning his claim to the epithet. But I think you underrate your skill with the small-sword. I've seen you doing very well with that weapon—at Roberto's fencing-school."

"Yes; I took lessons there. But fencing is very different from fighting."

"Never mind. When you get on the duelling-ground, fancy yourself within the walls of Roberto's shooting-gallery, and that you are about to take a fresh lesson in the art d'escrime. About all, choose the sword for your weapon."

"How can I, if I am to be the challenger?"

"You needn't be. There's a way to get over that. The English officers are not going straight back to their ship; not likely before a late hour of the night. After returning from their ride, I take it they'll stay to dinner at Don Gregorio's; and with wine to give them a start, they'll be pretty sure to have a cruise, as they call it, through the town. There, you may meet your man; and can insult him, by giving him a cuff, spitting in his face—anything to put the onus of challenging upon him."

"Por Dios! I'll do as you say."

"That's right. Now let us think of what's before us. As we are both to be principals, we can't stand seconds to one another. I know who'll act for me. Have you got a friend you can call upon?"

"Don Manuel Diaz. He's the only one I can think of."

"Don Manuel will do. He's a cool hand, and knows all the regulations of the duello. But he's not at home to-day. As I chance to know, he's gone to a funcion de gallos at Punta Pedro; and by this time should be in the cock-pit."

"Why can't we go there? Or had we better send?"

"Better send, I think. Time's precious—at least mine is. As you know, I must be at the monte table soon as the lamps are lit. If I'm not, the bank will go begging, and we may lose our customers. Besides, there's my own second to look up, which must be done this day before I lay a hand upon the cards. What hour is it? I've not brought my timepiece with me."

"Twelve o'clock, and a quarter past," answers Calderon, after consulting his watch.

"Only that! Then we'll have plenty of time to get to Punta Pedro, and witness a main. Don Manuel has a big bet on his pardo. I'd like myself to stake a doubloon or two on that bird. Yes, on reflection, we'd better go to the pelea de gallos. That will be the surest way to secure the services of Diaz. Vamonos!"

At this the two intending duellists again set their steeds in motion; and, riding for a short distance along the shore-road, turn into another, which will take them to Punta Pedro.

With jealous anger still unappeased, they urge their horses into a gallop, riding as if for life, on an errand whose upshot may be death— to one or both of them.



CHAPTER NINETEEN.

A "PASEO DE CABALLO."

The promontory called Punta Pedro is not in San Francisco Bay, but on the outside coast of the Pacific. To reach it from the former, it is necessary to traverse the dividing ridge between the two waters—this a spur of the "Coast Range," which, running higher as it trends southward, is known to Spanish Californians as the San Bruno Mountains.

Punta Pedro abuts from their base into the ocean; the coast in this quarter being bold and picturesque, but almost uninhabited. Here and there only the solitary hut of a seal-hunter, or fisherman, with a small collection of the same near the point itself, bearing its name, and a somewhat indifferent reputation. The Anglo-Saxon gold-seekers do not go there; it is only frequented by the natives.

From San Francisco to Punta Pedro the road runs past Dolores—an ancient mission of the Franciscan monks, whose port was, as already stated, Yerba Buena, previous to becoming re-christened San Francisco.

This route De Lara and Calderon have taken, getting into it by a cross-cut; and along it they continue to ride, still at a gallop, with faces set for Dolores.

They are not the only equestrians moving along that road. The dust kicked up by their horses hoofs has just settled down when a second party appears, going in the same direction, though at a gentler gait; for it is a cavalcade composed partly of ladies.

It is a quartette, two of each sex; and as the horses are the same already seen standing saddled in the courtyard of Don Gregorio's house, it is not necessary to give the names of the riders. These can be guessed.

Dona Carmen is carrying out the instructions left by her father, who, Californian fashion, supposed he could give his sailor-guests no greater treat than a paseo de caballo, including an excursion to the old Dolores Mission, without a visit to which no exploration of the country around San Francisco can be considered complete. It is not the least of California's "lions."

Like most Spanish-American ladies, Don Gregorio's daughter takes delight in the saddle, and spends some part of each day in it. An accomplished equestrienne, she could take a five-barred gate, or a bullfinch, with any of the hunting Dianas of England; and, if she has not ridden to hounds, she has chased wild horses, mounted on one but little less wild. That on which she now sits seems but half-tamed. Fresh from the stable, he rears and pitches, at times standing erect on his hind legs. For all, his rider has no fear of being unhorsed. She only smiles, pricks him with the spur, and regardlessly cuts him with her cuarto.

Much after the same fashion acts Inez, for she, too, has learned the Californian style of equitation.

The two present a picture that, to the eye unaccustomed to Mexican habits, might seem somewhat bizarre. Their mode of mount—as already said, a la Duchesse de Berri—their half-male attire, hats of vicuna wool, calzoncillas lace-fringed over their feet, buff boots, and large rowelled spurs—all these give them an air of bizarrerie, at the same time a pleasing picturesqueness; and, if appearing bold, still beautiful, as the South Sea wind flouts back the limp brims of their sombreros, and tosses their hair into dishevelment, while the excitement of the ride brings the colour to their cheeks—with flashes, as of fire, from their eyes.

The young English officers regard them with glances of ardent admiration. If they have been but smitten before, they are getting fast fixed now; and both will soon be seriously in love. The paseo de caballo promises to terminate in a proposal for a longer journey in companionship—through life, in pairs.

They are thus grouped: Crozier alongside Carmen—Cadwallader with Inez. The officers are in their uniforms—a costume for equestrian exercise not quite shipshape as they would phrase it. On horseback in a naval uniform! It would not do riding thus on an English road; there the veriest country lout would criticise it. But different in California, where all ride, gentle or simple, in dresses of every conceivable cut and fashion, with no fear of being ridiculed therefor. None need attach to the dress worn by Edward Crozier. His rank has furnished him with a frock-coat, which, well-fitting, gives a handsome contour to his person. Besides, he is a splendid horseman—has followed hounds before he ever set foot aboard a ship. Carmen Montijo perceives this; can tell it with half a glance; and it pleases her to reflect that her escorting cavalier is equal to the occasion. She believes him equal to anything.

With the other pair the circumstances are slightly different. Will Cadwallader is no horseman, having had but scant practice—a fact patent to all—Inez as the others. Besides, the mid is dressed in a pea-jacket; which, although becoming enough aboard ship, looks a little outre in the saddle, especially upon a prancing Californian steed. Does it make the young Welshman feel ashamed of himself? Not a bit. He is not the stuff to be humiliated on the score of an inappropriate costume. Nor yet by his inferiority in horsemanship, of which he is himself well aware. He but laughs as his steed prances about—the louder when it comes near pitching him.

How does he appear in the eyes of Inez Alvarez? Does she think him ridiculous? No. On the contrary, she seems charmed, and laughs along with him—delighted by his naivete, and the courage he displays in not caring for consequences. She knows he is out of his own element—the sea. She believes that on it he would be brave, heroic; among ropes the most skilled of reefers; and if he cannot gracefully sit a home, he could ride big billows, breasting them like an albatross.

Thus mutually taking each other's measure, the four equestrians canter on, and soon arrive at the mission.

But they do not design to stay there. The ride has been too short, the sweet moments have flown quickly; and the summit of a high hill, seen far beyond, induces them to continue the excursion.

They only stop to give a glance at the old monastery, where Spanish monks once lorded it over their copper-skinned neophytes; at the church, where erst ascended incense, and prayers were pattered in the ears of the aborigines—by them ill understood.

A moment spent in the cemetery, where Carmen points out the tomb enclosing the remains of her mother, dropping a tear upon it—perhaps forced from her by the reflection that soon she will be far from that sacred spot—it may be, never to revisit it!

Away from it now; and on to that hill from which they can descry the Pacific!

In another hour they have reined up on its summit, and behold the great South Sea, stretching to far horizon's verge, to the limit of their vision. Before them all is bright and beautiful. Only some specks in the dim distance—the lone isles of the Farrallones. More northerly, and nearer, the "Seal" rocks and that called Campana—from its arcade hollowed out by the wash of waves, giving it a resemblance to the belfry of a church. Nearer still, below a belt of pebbly beach, a long line of breakers, foam-crested, and backed by a broad reach of sand-dunes—there termed medanos.

Seated in the saddle, the excursionists contemplate this superb panorama. The four are now together, but soon again separate into pairs, as they have been riding along the road. Somehow or other, their horses have thus disposed themselves: that ridden by Crozier having drawn off with the one carrying Carmen; while the steed so ill-managed by Cadwallader has elected to range itself alongside that of Inez.

Perhaps the pairing has not been altogether accidental. Whether or no, it is done; and the conversation, hitherto general, is reduced to the simplicity of dialogue.

To report it correctly, it is necessary to take the pairs apart, giving priority to those who by their years have the right to it.

Crozier, looking abroad over the ocean, says—

"I shall ere long be upon it." He accompanies the speech with a sigh.

"And I, too," rejoins Carmen, in a tone, and with accompaniment, singularly similar.

"How soon do you think of leaving California?" queries the young officer.

"Oh, very soon! My father is already making arrangements, and hopes being able to set sail in a week, if not less. Indeed, he has this day been to see about taking passages to Panama. That's why he was not at home to receive you; leaving me to do the honours of the house, and apologise for his seeming rudeness."

For that not much apology was needed, thinks Crozier, who is for a time silent, not knowing what next to say. Love, reputed eloquent, is oft the reverse; and though opening the lips of a landsman, will shut those of men who follow the sea. There is a remarkable modesty about the latter more than the former—in the presence of women. Why, I cannot tell; only knowing that as a rule it is so; and certainly in the case of Edward Crozier.

In time he gets over his embarrassment, so far as to venture upon an interrogatory, not very pertinent—

"I suppose, Dona Carmen, you are very happy at the prospect of returning to Spain?"

"No, indeed," answers Don Gregorio's daughter. "On the contrary, it makes me rather melancholy. I love dear California, and could live in it all my life. Couldn't you?"

"Under certain circumstances, I could."

"But you like the country, don't you?"

"I do, now. In ten days from this time, I shall no longer care for it— not three straws."

"Why do you say that, Don Eduardo? There's an enigma in your words. Please explain them?"

While asking the question, her grey-blue eyes gaze into his, with an expression of searching eagerness—almost anxiety.

"Shall I tell you why, senorita!"

"I have asked you, senor."

"Well, then, I like California now, because it contains the fairest object on earth—to me the dearest—the woman I love. In ten days or less, by her own showing, she will be away from it; why should I care for it then? Now, Dona Carmen, I've given you the key to what you've called an enigma."

"Not quite. Perhaps you will pardon a woman's curiosity, if I ask the name of the lady who thus controls your likes and dislikes."

Crozier hesitates, a red spot flushing out upon his cheek. He is about to pronounce a name—perhaps make a speech, the most important he has ever made in his life—because laden with his life's happiness, or leading to the reverse. What if it should be coldly received?

But no; he cannot be mistaken. Her question, so quaintly, yet so impressively put—surely courts the answer he intends giving? And he gives it without further reflection—her own name, not an added word.

"Carmen Montijo."

"Eduardo," she asks, after a pause, dropping the Don, "are you in earnest? Can I take this as true? Do not deceive me—in honour do not! To you—and I truly tell you—I have surrendered all my heart. Say that I have yours!"

"I have said it, Carmen," he too adopting the familiar language of love. "Have I not?"

"Sincerely?"

"Look in my eyes for the answer."

She obeys; and drawing closer, tiny gaze into one another's eyes; the flashes from the blue crossing and commingling with those from the brown. Neither could mistake the meaning of the glance, for it is the true light of love, pure as passionate.

Not another word passes between them. The confession, with its dreaded crisis, is passed; and, with hearts quivering in sweet content, they turn their thoughts to the future, full of pleasant promise.

Near by are two other hearts, quite as happy as theirs; though after a scene less sentimental, and a dialogue that, to a stranger overhearing it, might appear to be in jest. For all, in real earnest, and so ending—as may be inferred from the young Welshman's final speech, with the reply of his Andalusian sweetheart:

"Inez, you're the dearest girl I've met in all my cruisings. Now, don't let us beat about any longer, but take in sail, and bring the ship to an anchor. Will you be mine, and marry me?"

"I will."

No need to stay longer there—no object in continuing to gaze over the ocean.

The horses seem instinctively to understand this; and, turning together, set their heads for home.



CHAPTER TWENTY.

POT VALIANT.

The bright Californian sun is declining towards the crest of the Coast Range, when two horsemen, coming from the Pacific side, commence ascending the ridge.

As the sultry hours have passed, and a chill breeze blows from the outside ocean, they have thrust their heads through the central slits of their cloaks—these being mangas—leaving the circular skirts to droop down below their knees—while draping back, cavalry fashion, over the hips of their horses. The colours of these garments—one scarlet, the other sky-blue—enable us to identify the wearers as Don Francisco de Lara and Don Faustino Calderon; for in truth it is they, returning from the pelea de gallos at Punta Pedro.

They have seen Diaz, and arranged everything about the duel. Faustino has finally determined upon fight. Instigated by his more courageous confederate, and with further pressing on the part of Diaz—a sort of Californian bravo—his courage has been at length screwed up to the necessary pitch; and kept there by the potent spirit of Catalonian brandy, found freely circulating around the cock-pit.

A flask of the Catalan he has brought away with him, and at intervals takes a pull from it, as he rides along the road. Under its influence he becomes pot valiant; and swears, if he can but again set eyes upon the English guardia-marina, he will affront him in such fashion as to leave him no loophole of escape from being the challenger. Carrai! he will do as De Lara has recommended: cuff the young officer, kick him, spit in his face, anything to provoke the gringo to a fight—that yellow-haired cub without bigots or beard. And if the cur won't fight, then he shall apologise—get down upon his knees, acknowledge him, Faustino Calderon, the better man, and for ever after surrender all claim to the smiles, as to the hand, of Inez Alvarez!

With such swaggering talk he entertains his companion, as the two are returning to town.

De Lara, less noisy, is nevertheless also excited. The fiery alcohol has affected him too. Not to strengthen his courage; for of this he has already enough; but to remove the weight from off his soul, which, after the scene at Don Gregorio's, had been pressing heavily upon it. Six hours have since elapsed, and for the first three he had been brooding over his humiliation, his spirit prostrate in the dust. But the Catalan has again raised it to a pitch of exultation; especially when he reflects upon the prospect of the sure and speedy vengeance he is determined to take.

It does not occur to him to doubt of success. With thorough reliance on his skill as a swordsman, he feels sure of it. Though also a good shot, he prefers the steel for his weapon; like most men of the southern Latinic race, who believe Northerners to be very bunglers at sword-play, though admitting their superiority in the handling of the pistol. As things stand, unlike his comrade Calderon, he will have the choice of weapons. His intended antagonist was the first to demand the card, and must needs be challenger.

As the two ride on, they talk alternately, both giving vent to their spleen—the man of courage, as the coward. If not so loud, or boastingly, as his companion, De Lara expresses himself with a more spiteful and earnest determination; repeating much of what he has already said at an earlier hour, but with added emphasis. Once he sees the English officer at his rapier's point, he will show him no mercy, but run him through, without the slightest compunction. In vain may his adversary cry "Quarter." There can be none conceded, after what has that day passed between them.

"Maldita! it shall be a duel to the death!" he exclaims, after having given way to a series of threats, the words pronounced with an empressement that tells him to be truly, terribly in earnest.

They have been carrying on this excited dialogue, as their horses climbed the slope from the Pacific side, its steepness hindering them from going at their usual gait—a gallop. On rising the ridge's crest, and catching sight of San Francisco, with its newly painted white walls, and shining tin roofs, reflected red in the rays of the setting sun, De Lara, suddenly remembering the pressure upon him as to time, strikes the spur sharp against his horse's ribs, and puts the animal to speed. The other imitating his example, they dash on towards Dolores.

They have no intention to make stop at the mission; but, on reaching it, they draw up; obedient to the hail of a man seen standing in the door of a little tavern, or tinacal, frequented by the lower class of native Californians.

A rough, swarthy-skinned fellow, in a garb that proclaims his calling to have connection with the sea, though not that of a sailor. He may be a shore-boatman—perhaps a piscador—though, judging by his general appearance, and the uncanny cast of his countenance, he might well pass for a pirate.

Stepping a few paces out from the tinacal, he salutes the two horsemen, who have halted in the middle of the road to await his approach. Despite his coarse, brutal aspect, and common habiliments, he is evidently on terms of familiarity with both—the style of his salutation showing it. It is with De Lara, however, his business lies, as signified by his saying:

"I want a word with you, Don Francisco."

"What is it, Rocas?" asks the Creole. "Anything about seal-skins?" laying a significant emphasis on the last word.

"Carramba! No. Something of more importance than that."

"Money, then?"

"Money."

"Do you wish our speech to be private?"

"Just now, yes. Perhaps, in time, Don Faustino—"

"Oh!" interrupts the ganadero, "don't let me stand in the way. I'll ride slowly on; you can overtake me, Don Francisco."

"Do," says De Lara, at the same time stooping down in his saddle, and continuing the conversation with Rocas, in tone so low as to prevent their speech being overheard by other queer-looking customers who have just stepped out of the tinacal, and stand loitering at its door.

Whatever Rocas may have said, it appears to make a vivid impression on the gambler. His eyes kindle up with a strange light, in which surprise is succeeded by an expression of cupidity; while his manner proclaims that the revelation made to him is not only important, as he has been forewarned, but also pleasing.

Their muttered dialogue is of brief duration; ending with a remark which shows it to be only preliminary to a further and more prolonged conference.

"I shall be with you to-morrow, by mid-day." It is De Lara who has said this; after which adding: "Adios, Don Rafael! Hasta manana!" he gives his horse the spur, and gallops to overtake his travelling companion; Rocas sauntering back towards the tinacal.



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

A "GOLPE DE CABALLO."

On coming up with the ganadero, De Lara rides on silently by his side, without exhibiting any desire to satisfy the other's curiosity. He but piques it by saying, that Rocas has a made communication of an intensely interesting kind; which he will impart to him, Faustino, in due time; but now there are other matters of more importance to be attended to. The fighting is before them; and that cannot be set aside.

Calderon wishes it could: for the flask has been for a time forgotten, and the spirit has been getting cold within him.

"Take another pull!" counsels his companion; "you may need it. We'll soon be in the town, and, perhaps, the first man we meet there will be your yellow-haired rival."

Scarcely have the words passed De Lara's lips when something in front fixes his attention, as also that of his companion. At some distance along the road a cloud of dust is ascending; in its midst a darker nucleus, distinguishable as the forms of horses with riders on their backs. There appear to be four of them, filed two and two.

Plying their spurs, and galloping closer, the gamblers perceive that this equestrian party is proceeding in the same direction as themselves—towards the town.

But they are soon near enough to know that such is not their destination. For, despite the enshrouding dust, they have no difficulty in identifying the individuals before them. The horses are the same seen that morning, saddled and bridled, in front of Don Gregorio's house. Two of the riders are Carmen Montijo and Inez Alvarez; the other two—

At this point conjecture terminates. De Lara, certain, and no longer able to control himself, cries out:

"Carajo! it's they returning from their excursion—paired off, as I supposed they would be! So, Calderon, you have your chance sooner than you expected. And without seeking it—a lucky omen! There's your rival, riding by the side of your sweetheart, and pouring soft speech into her ear! Now's your time to set things straight—insult him to your heart's content. I feel like giving a fresh affront to mine."

He draws rein, bringing his horse to a halt. The ganadero does the same. Scanning the equestrians ahead, they see them two and two, each pair some ten or twelve paces apart from the other. Crozier and Carmen are in the advance, Cadwallader and Inez behind.

De Lara looks not at the latter couple; his eyes are all upon the former, staring with fixed intensity, full of jealous fire, in a glare such as only a tiger might give, on seeing Carmen Montijo turn towards her escorting cavalier, and bend over—he to her—till their heads are close together, and their lips seemingly in contact!

"Carrai! they're kissing!" he exclaims, in a tone of bitter exasperation.

He can bear it no longer. With a shout, half angry, half anguished, he digs the spur deep, and dashes forward.

The clattering of hoofs behind first warns Cadwallader, who is nearest to the noise. For, up to this time, the lovers, absorbed in sweet converse, dreamed not of danger.

The young Welshman, glancing back, sees what it is, at the same time hears De Lara's wild cry. Intuitively he understands that some outrage is intended—a repetition of the morning's work, with doubtless something more.

Quickly he draws his dirk: not now to be used in sport, for the mere pricking of a horse, but in serious earnest, to be buried in the body of a man—if need be. This resolve can be read in his attitude, in his eyes, in his features. These no longer bent in the laugh of a reckless boy, but the rigid, resolute determination of a man. Badly as he sits his horse, it will not do now to dash against him. The collision may cost life—in all likelihood, that of the aggressor.

De Lara sweeps past the midshipman without saying a word; without even taking notice of him. His affair is with one further on.

But now Calderon is coming up, clearly with the intent to assault, as shown in his eyes.

Suddenly, however, their expression changes at sight of the bared blade. Again that diabolical dirk! Despite a pull he has just taken from the flask, his courage fails him; and crestfallen, as a knight compelled to lower his plume, he too passes Cadwallader, without a word—riding on after De Lara.

He overtakes the latter in time to be spectator of a scene; in its commencement somewhat similar to that enacted by himself, but with a very different termination.

Crozier, whose ear has also caught the sounds from behind, draws bridle, and looks back. He sees De Lara making towards him; and, at a glance, divines the intent. It is a golpe de caballo, or collision of horses—a common mode of assault among Spanish Californians.

Instead of turning aside to avoid it, he of Shropshire determines on a different course. He knows he is upon a strong horse, and feels confident he can stay there.

With this confidence he faces towards the advancing enemy, and after taking true bearing, spurs straight at him.

Breast to breast the horses meet, shoulder to shoulder the men. Not a word between these themselves, both too maddened to speak. Only a cry from Carmen Montijo, a shriek from Inez Alvarez, heard simultaneously with the shock.

When it is over, Don Francisco de Lara is seen rolling upon the road— his horse kicking and sprawling in the dust beside him.

Regaining his feet, the gambler rushes to get hold of a pistol, whose butt protrudes from his saddle-holster.

He is too late: Cadwallader has come up; and, dropping down out of his saddle, as if from a ship's shrouds, makes himself master of the weapon.

Disarmed, his glittering attire dust-bedaubed, De Lara stands in the middle of the road, irresolute, discomfited, conquered. He can do nothing now, save storm and threaten—interlarding his threats with curses—"Carajos!" spitefully pronounced.

The ladies, at Crozier's request, have ridden on ahead, so that their ears are not offended.

After listening to the ebullition of his impotent spleen—Cadwallader all the while loudly laughing—Crozier, in serious tone, says:

"Don Francisco De Lara—for your card tells me that is your name—take a sailor's advice: go quietly to your quarters; stow yourself out of sight; and stay there till your temper cools down. We don't want you to walk. You shall have your horse, though not your shooting-iron. That I shall take care of myself, and may return it to you when next we meet. The same advice to you, sir," he adds, addressing Calderon, who stands near equally cowed and crestfallen.

After dictating these humiliating conditions—which, nolens volens, the defeated bravos are obliged to accept—the young officers leap back into their saddles, and trot off to rejoin the ladies.

Having overtaken these, they continue their homeward ride, with no fear of its being again interrupted by a "golpe de caballo."



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

"HASTA CADIZ!"

On leaving Captain Lantanas, the ex-ganadero returns to his house— though not direct. He has business to transact in the town, which stays him. He has to see Don Tomas Silvestre, the shipping-agent, and give directions about inserting the advertisement for sailors. That is an affair that will occupy only a few minutes. But he has another with the agent of a more important kind. He is personally acquainted with Silvestre, who is, like himself, a Peninsular Spaniard and Biscayan. Don Gregorio knows he can trust him, and does—telling him all he has told Lantanas, making further known the arrangement he has entered into for passages to Panama, and instructing him to assist the Chilian skipper in procuring a crew.

The more confidential matter relates to the shipment of his gold-dust. He trembles to think of the risk he runs of losing it. San Francisco is filled with queer characters—men who would stick at nothing.

Don Tomas knows this without being told. And the thought haunts the Biscayan like a spectre, that he will have his treasure taken from him by theft, burglary, or bold open robbery.

He has good reason for so apprehending. Among the latest accessions to the population of San Francisco all three classes of criminals are represented, and in no stinted numbers. There are ticket-of-leave men from Australia, jail-birds from the penitentiaries of the States, 'scape-the-gallows customers from every quarter of the globe; to say nothing of the native bandits, of which California has its share. If known to these that yellow metal, to the value of three hundred thousand dollars, was lying unguarded in the house of Don Gregorio Montijo, it would not be there many days or nights. Its owner has done what he could to keep this a secret; but the sale and transfer of his land have leaked out, as also the handsome price obtained, and paid over to him; hence a natural inference that the cash must be deposited somewhere.