Governor Arrillaga, Commandante Arguello, and Chamberlain Rezanov sat in the familiar sala at the Presidio content in body after a culinary achievement worthy of Padre Landaeta, but perturbed and alert of mind. Upon the arrival of the two California dignitaries in the morning, Rezanov had sent Davidov and Langsdorff on shore to assure them of his gratitude and deep appreciation of the hospitality shown himself, his officers and men. The Governor had replied with a fulsome apology for not repairing at once to the Juno to welcome his distinguished guest in person, and, pleading his age and the one hundred and seventy-five English miles he had ridden from Monterey, begged him as a younger man to waive informality, and dine at the house of the Commandante that very day. Rezanov had complied as a matter of course, and now he was alone with the men who held his fate in their hands. The dark worn rugged face of Don Jose, who had been skilfully prepared by his oldest daughter to think well of the Russian, beamed with good-will and interest, in spite of lingering doubts; but the lank, wiry figure of the Governor, who was as dignified as only a blond Spaniard can be, was fairly rigid with the severe formality he reserved for occasions of ceremony--being a gentleman who loved good company and cheer--and his sharp gray eyes were almost shut in the effort to penetrate the designs of this deputy, this symbol, this index in cipher, of a dreaded race. Rezanov smoked calmly, made himself comfortable on the slippery horse-hair chair, though with no loss of dignity, and beat about the bush with the others until the Governor betrayed himself at last by a chance remark: "What you say of the neighborly instincts of the Russian colonists for the Spanish on this coast interests me deeply, Excellency, but if Russia is at war with Spain--" "Russia is not at war with Spain," said Rezanov, with a flash of amusement in his half-closed eyes. "Napoleon Bonaparte is encamped about half way between the two countries. They could not get at each other if they wished. While that man is at large, Europe will be at war with him, no two nations with each other." "Ah!" exclaimed Arrillaga. "That is a manner of reasoning that had not occurred to me." The Commandante had spat at the mention of the usurper's name and muttered "Chinchosa!" and Rezanov, recalling his first conversation with Concha, looked into the honest eyes of the monarchist with a direct and hearty sympathy. "No better epithet for him," he said. "And the sooner Europe combines to get rid of him the better. But until it does, count upon a common grievance to unite your country and mine."