"Why, Cochrane!" exclaimed Hastings, "what on earth is the matter with you?" "Captain Hastings!" stammered the man. "Oh I--I--beg pardon. I thought--Oh, of course, I see. Tim had taken a drop too much. A most deplorable habit. Can I help you down, sir?" "No, thanks." He sprang lightly to the sidewalk, followed with less agility by the Englishman, who still held the cocked pistol. "I forgot about this thing," said Thorpe. "Here--take it. I suppose we don't enter the houses of peaceable citizens, even in California, carrying loaded firearms?" Cochrane led the horses into the little park which prinked the centre of the enclosure, and the young men ascended the steps. "I'd give a good deal to know what set him off like that," said Hastings. "Hitherto he's been the one thoroughly impassive creature I've met in California; has a face about as expressionless as a sentinel on duty." He pushed open the door and they entered a large hall lavishly decorated with flowers and flags. Many people were dancing in a room at the right, others were strolling about the hall or seated on the stair. These made way rather ungraciously for the late comers, who went hurriedly up to the dressing-room and regarded themselves in the mirror. "We're not dirty, after all," said the Englishman in a tone of profound relief. He was a tall thin man of thirty or less with a dark face lean enough to show hard ungraceful lines of chin and jaw. The mouth would have been sensual had it been less determined, the grey eyes cold had they been less responsive to humour. Mrs. McLane had told him once that he was the type of man for whom civilization had done most: that an educated will and humour, combined with high breeding, had saved him from slavery to the primal impulses. His voice was harsh in tone but well modulated. He held himself very erectly but without self-consciousness. Hastings' legs were his pride, and there were those who averred that they were the pride of the Presidio. His face was fair and round, his eyes were as talkative as his tongue. A past master of the noble art of flirting, no one took him more seriously than he took himself. He spoke with the soft rich brogue of the South; to-day it is hardened by years of command, and his legs are larger, but he is a doughty general, eager as ever for the hot high pulse of battle. "Come on, Dud," he said, "time is getting short." As they walked down the stair a man who was crossing the hall looked up, smiled charmingly, then paused, awaiting them. He was a small man of dignified presence with a head and face nobly modelled. His skin was faded and worn, it was cut with three or four deep lines, and his hair was turning grey, but his black eyes were brilliant.