"We should all wear black for so mournful an oc-casion," said Rafaella Sal, spreading out her scarlet skirts.
"Father Abella is right. The occasion is sad enough without giving it the air of a funeral."
"Sad! Dios de mi alma! Will he return?"
Elena Castro shook her wise head. She was nearly twenty, and four years of matrimony had made her sceptical of man's capacity for romance.
"Two years are long, and he will see many girls, and become one again of a life that is always more brilliant than our sun in May. His eyes will be dazzled, his mind distracted, full to the brim. To sit at table with the Tsar, to talk with him alone in his cabinet, to have for the asking audience of the Pope of Rome and the King of Spain! Ay yi! Ay yi! Perhaps he will be made a prince when he re-turns to St. Petersburg and all the beautiful prin-cesses will want to marry him. Can he remember this poor little California, and even our lovely Con-cha? I doubt! Valgame Dios, I doubt!"
"Concha has always been too fortunate," said Rafaella with a touch of spite, for years of waiting had tried her temper and the sun always freckled her nose. The flower of California stood on the corridor of the Mission and before the church await-ing the guest of honor and his escort. A mass was to be said in behalf of the departing guests; the Juno would sail with the turn of the afternoon tide.
Men and women were in their gayest finery, an ex-otic mass of color against the rough white-washed walls, chattering as vivaciously as if the burden of their conversation were not regret for the Chamber-lain and his gay young lieutenants. Concha, alone, wore no color; her frock was white, her mantilla black. She stood somewhat apart, but although she was pale she commanded her eyes to dwell absently on the shifting sand far down the valley, her haughty Spanish profile betraying nothing of the despair in her soul.
"Yes, Concha has always been too fortunate," re-peated Rafaella. "Why should she be chosen for such a destiny--to go to the Russian court and wear a train ten yards long of red velvet embroidered with gold, a white veil spangled with gold, a head-dress a foot high set so thick with jewels her head will ache for a week--Madre de Dios! And we stay here forever with white walls, horsehair fur-niture, Baja California pearls and three silk dresses a year!"
"No one in all Russia will look so grand in court dress as our Conchita," said Elena loyally. "But I doubt if it is the dress and the state she thinks of losing to-day. She will not talk even to me of him-- Ay yi! she grows more reserved every day, our Concha!--except to say she will wed him when he returns, and that I know, for did not I witness the betrothal? She only mocks me when I beg her to tell me if she loves him, languishes, or sings a bar of some one of our beautiful songs with ridiculous words. But she does. She did not sleep last night. Her room is next to mine. No, it is of Rezanov she thinks, and always. Those proud, silent girls, who jest when others would weep and use many words and must die without sympathy--they have tragedy in their souls, ay yi! And you think she is fortunate? True she is beautiful, she is La Favorita, she receives many boxes from Mex-ico, and she has won the love of this Russian. But --I have not dared to remind her--I remembered it only yesterday--she came into this world on the thirteenth of a month, and he into her life but one day before the thirteenth of another--new style!
True some might say that it was an escape, but if he came on the twelfth, it was on the thirteenth she began to love him--on the night of the ball; of that I am sure."
Rafaella shuddered and crossed herself. "Poor Concha! Perhaps in the end she will always stand apart like that. Truly she is not as others. I have always said it. Thanks be to Mary it was Luis that wooed me, not the Russian, for I might have been tempted. True his eyes are blue, and only the black could win my heart. But the court of St. Petersburg! Dios de mi vida! Did I lie awake at night and think of Concha Arguello in red velvet and jewels all over, I should hate her. But no--to-day--I cannot. Two years! Have I not waited six? It is eternity when one loves and is young."
"They come," said Elena.
The cavalcade was descending the sand hills on the left, Rezanov in full uniform between the Com-mandante and Luis Arguello and followed by a picked escort of officers from Presidio and Fort.
The Californians wore full-dress uniform of white and scarlet, Don Jose a blue velvet serape, embroid-ered in gold with the arms of Spain.
As they dismounted Rezanov bowed ceremoni-ously to the party on the corridor, and they returned his salutation gravely, suddenly silent. He walked directly over to Concha.
"We will go in together," he said. "It matters nothing what they think. I kneel beside no one else."
And Concha, with the air of leading an honored guest to the banquet, turned and walked with him into the dark little church.
