But Sturgis swore a mighty oath that he would never despatch a letter uninspected by the Com-mandante, that he would make no excursions into the heart of the country, that he would neither en-gage in traffic nor interfere in politics. Then hav-ing already won the affections of the Governor, he was permitted to remain, even to rent an acre of land from the Church in the sheltered Mission val-ley, and build himself a house. Here he raised fruit and vegetables for his own hospitable table, chickens and game cocks. Books and other lux-uries came by every ship from Boston; until for a long interval ships came no more. One of these days, when the power of the priests had abated, and the jealousy which would keep all Californians land-less but themselves was counterbalanced by a great increase in population, he meant to have a ranch down in the south where the sun shone all the year round and he could ride half the day with his vaqueros after the finest cattle in the country. He should never marry because he could not marry Concha Arguello, but he could think of her, see her sometimes; and in a land where a man was neither frozen in winter nor grilled in summer, where life could be led in the open, and the tendency was to idle and dream, domestic happiness called on a feebler note than in less equable climes. In his heart he was desperately jealous of Concha's fav-ored cavaliers, but it was a jealousy without hatred, and his kind, earnest, often humorous eyes, were always assuring his lady of an imperishable desire to serve her without reward. Of course Concha treated him with as little consideration as so humble a swain deserved; but in her heart she liked him bet-ter than either Castro or Sal, for he talked to her of something besides rodeos and balls, racing and cock-fights; he had taught her English and lent her many books. Moreover, he neither sighed nor lan-guished, nor ever had sung at her grating. But she regarded him merely as an intelligence, a well of refreshment in her stagnant life, never as a man.
"Rose," she said, as she caught her hair into a high golden comb that had been worn in Spain by many a beauty of the house of Moraga, and spiked the knot with two long pins globed at the end with gold, while the maid fastened her slippers and smoothed the pink silk stockings over the thin in-step above; "what is a lover like? Is it like meet-ing one of the saints of heaven?"
"No, senorita."
"Like what, then?"
"Like--like nothing but himself, senorita. You would not have him otherwise."
"Oh, stupid one! Hast thou no imagination?
Fancy any man being well enough as he is! For instance, there is Don Antonio, who is so hand-some and fiery, and Don Ignacio, who can sing and dance and ride as no one else in all the Californias, and Don Weeliam Sturgis, who is very clever and true. If I could roll them into one--a tamale of corn and chicken and peppers--there would be a man almost to my liking. But even then--not quite. And one man--what nonsense! I have too much color to-night, Rosa."
"No, senorita, you have never been so beautiful.
When the lover comes and you love him, senorita, you will think him greater than our natural king and lord, and all other men poor Indians."
"But how shall I know?"
"Your heart will tell you, senorita."
"My heart? My father and my mother will choose for me a husband whom I shall love as all other women love their husbands--just enough and no more. Then--I suppose--I shall never know?"
"Would you marry at your parents' bidding, like a child, senorita? I do not think you would."
Concha looked at the girl in astonishment, but with a greater astonishment she suddenly realized that she would not. Even her little fingers stiffened in a rush of personality, of passionate resentment against the shackles bound by the ages about the feminine ego. Her individuality, long budding, burst into flower; her eyes gazed far beyond her radiant image in the mirror with a look of terrified but dauntless insight; then moved slowly to the girl that sat weeping on the floor.
"I know not what thy sin was," she said musingly.
"But I have heard it said thou didst obey no law but thine own will--and his. Why should the pun-ishment have been so terrible? Thou hast sworn to me thou didst not help to murder the woman."
"I cannot tell you, senorita. You will never know anything of sin; but of love--yes, I think you will know that, and before very long."
"Before long?" Concha's lips parted and the ner-vous color she had deprecated left her cheeks.
"What meanest thou, Rosa?" Her voice rose hoarsely.
And the Indian, with the insight of her own tragedy, replied: "The Russian has come for you, senorita. You will go with him, far away to the north and the snow. These others never could win your heart; but this man who looks like a king, and as if many women had loved him, and he had cared little-- Oh, senorita, Carlos was only a poor In-dian, but the men that women love all have some-thing that makes them brothers--the Great Rus-sian and the poor man who goes mad for a moment and kills one woman that he may live with another forever. The great Russian is free, but he is the same, senorita--he too could kill for love, and such are the men we women die for!"
Concha, ambitious and romantic, eager for the brilliant life the advent of this Russian nobleman seemed to herald, had assured Santiago that he would love her; but they had been the empty words of the Favorita of many conquests; of love and pas-sion she had known, suspected, nothing. As she watched Rosa, huddled and convulsed, little pointed arrows flew into her brain. Girls in those old Span-ish days went to the altar with a serene faith in miracles, and it was a matter of honor among those that preceded their friends to abet the parents in a custom which assuredly did not err on the side of ugliness. Concha had a larger vocabulary than other Californians of her sex, for she had read many books, and if never a novel, she knew some-thing of poetry. Sturgis had filled the sala with the sonorous roll of his favorite masters and it had pleased her ear; but the language of passion had been so many beautiful words, neither vibrating nor lingering in her consciousness. But the rude expres-sion of the miserable woman at her feet, whose sobs grew more uncontrollable every moment, made it forever impossible that she should prattle again as she had to Santiago and Rezanov in the last day and night; and although she felt as if straining her eyes in the dark, her cheeks burned once more, and she rose uneasily and walked to the window.
She returned in a moment and stood over Rosa, but her voice when she spoke had lost its hoarseness and was cold and irritated.
"Control thyself," she said. "And go and bathe thine eyes. Wouldst look like a tomato when it is time to pass the dulces and wines? And think no more of thy lover until he can come out of prison and marry thee." She drew herself away as the woman attempted to clutch her skirts. "Go," she said. "The musicians are tuning."
