“Well, art is art,” replied Dick sturdily, although he did not trust himself to look at Merle while he answered. “But perhaps the young ladies will show you the way through the oak forest,” suggested Mr. Robles. “That would be great,” said Lieutenant Munson, with his eyes fixed on Grace Darlington. “Delightful,” she blushingly assented. “Well, arrange it among yourselves. For the present, adios.” And with a sweeping bow the senor took his departure. A stroll through the gardens and orchards, dinner and sprightly conversation, an hour of piano-playing and singing to follow—altogether a delightful evening was spent. The nearly full moon had risen before the young men found themselves on the homeward trail. As side by side they rode down into the valley, Munson said: “Dick, boy, there’s no use talking. You have introduced me to some perfectly charming people today—they’re wonderful.” “What did I tell you?” asked Dick. “You surely did not tell me the half,” replied the other. “I think Grace Darlington is the prettiest girl I have ever seen.” “Guess you’ll be writing out your resignation and sending it to army headquarters,” laughed Dick. “Quien sabe?” The lieutenant made no reply, and quickening their pace, they pushed on in silence. At last they were nearing home—passing round the last spur of the mountain. The moon was now riding high overhead, bathing the whole landscape in bright effulgence. Willoughby brought his pony to a walk, and Munson, coming up behind, soon joined him. “How do you like riding by the light of the California moon?” asked Willoughby. “Really, Dick, you call even the moon a California moon, as if the same moon didn’t shine in New York City or in Paris.” “Not in the same way,” said Dick soberly. “The truth is, the moon really looks larger and brighter here, and the stars, too, are more brilliant. Haven’t you noticed it?” “I have noticed that the atmosphere is exceedingly clear,” replied Munson, and, as if to verify his observation, he cast a glance up to the rock-ribbed flank of the mountain above the belt of timber. “Good God, what’s that?” he added breathlessly grasping the arm of his friend. Instinctively both halted their horses as they continued to gaze. 0105 The bent form of the old Indian squaw Guadalupe was unmistakable as she toiled slowly along a narrow ledge on the face of the precipice. But following close behind her was a vague, shadowy figure—the figure of some four-footed beast, bigger than a big dog. “The white wolf!” gasped Dick. “Is it real, or is it a spectre?” whispered Munson. Just then a scudding cloud momentarily obscured the moon, and when the full light again shone forth, both woman and wolf had vanished. The young men looked into each other’s eyes in awe and wonderment. CHAPTER VI—The Quarrel