Fog everywhere. Congealed fog dripped from the roofs of Monterey. It fell, drop, drop, drop, in elongated pearls, on the slippery flag walks around the houses. Mountains of fog lay over the city, and slid in huge avalanches into the valleys. The harbor and near-about sea were filled with vapor-hills and crags. Fog blanketed the streets, blurred the trees, blotted the symmetry of buildings into bewildering shapelessness, and peopled the town with weird specters. Occasionally a candle-point showed feebly in a corner lamp. Once in a while the dimness was accentuated by a lighted space streaking a yellowish gleam into the semiopaqueness--the candle of some early-rising Montereyan shining from his window. There were few of these lights to aid the passer-by; and there were few passers-by. Not only was the hour early for the people to be about, but the city itself was almost tenantless. It was the beginning of the fifth day since the English fleet had sailed into Monterey, and out again. Colonel Barcelo, with his soldiers, had marched away to Alisal, the colors from the fort and from the square emblazoned at the head of his column. After him rode the most of the wealth and fashion of the capital; that is, the most of those who had not preceded him. The Colonel declared that he had satisfied honor, and that he would now retire in face of superior force. Calmness of weather had succeeded wind-storm; still the fort slept peacefully beneath the empty flagpole, and the city plaza caught no shadow of foreign banner floating from the lofty staff in its center. A horseman rode into town, made his way hurriedly through the plaza and crossed to a smaller plaza. He drew in sharply when he reached a house in which a light was showing through the railing of a veranda on the second story. He turned into the porte cochere. A vague figure was heaped across the threshold of the front door. "Ola! Ola! Benito!" called the rider. The figure resolved itself into a man wrapped in a blanket. Turtlelike his head emerged from its folds. "Benito is with Colonel Barcelo. I am Alberto, peon of Señor Miramonte." "Has Señora Valentino returned to the capital? Do you know?" "The señora returned last night, señor." "Is she within?" "She is not, señor." "Where is she?" "She's away, señor." The man loosened rein and started down the street. "Captain Farquharson," called the peon, in tardy recognition. "Many pardons, but may I make free to speak? The señora brought my wife, Lupincha, and me along as servants, since she heard the Barcelo place is vacant. Señora Miramonte lent us. May I say, Captain, my lady has taken Lupincha with her and, attended by a peon guard, is now at the castle, leaving an hour ago?" "At the castle? An hour ago?" "Si, Señor Captain. Breakfast is to be served there." "Breakfast--at the castle!" the man speaking half to himself, and as if perplexed.